Better Left Unsung
by Cutie Pie 9335
Summary: Kyle discovers Cartman's dirty Friday night secret - one that involves fish nets, feather boas, and corsets. Kyman.
1. Chapter 1

**Athor's *Edit* Note: Okay, so after reading a lengthy review from an annonymous reader, they convinced me to revisit the beginning of this story and make a slight change, which honeslty was a good idea, so I spent most of today revising the rest of my story. I kept most of the beginning, except for that lame lead-in with the whole 'My name is blah and yadda yadda blah' because I thought keeping part of the intro would still keep some people guesssong until the end of the chapter, which I what I really wanted.**

**I hope you all enjoy this story as much I have enjoyed writing it. Please read, laugh, and review.**

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Revenge – defined as taking a harmful action against someone who has caused you a grievance, personal or otherwise.

That's what I told myself, over and over again. This was revenge for all the times he'd ever humiliated me, tried to kill me, put down my race, convinced everyone that I was actually somehow evil, or was just plain being a dickhead. This was finally the universe getting on my side, albeit a little late, but none the less.

Vengeance at long last.

Chapter 1: Russian Roulette is Not the Same Without a Gun

"It's fucking August! August!" I exclaim for what seems to be the hundredth time that Friday morning. As if to prove my point, steam swirls out of my mouth and curling around in the air as little wisps before dissipating back into nothingness. Stubbornly, I clamp my arms around myself to stay warm but it little good it does me.

"Stop being such a fag, Jew-boy" Cartman interrupts my rant from beside me, glancing down the street a little impatiently for the bus. Even as a senior in high school, the Nazi still rips on me – some things never change.

"Fuck off, Cartman. You're only warm because of that lard, you tubby son of a bitch."

Well, who ever said I stopped ripping on him too?

"Hey, I'm not fat anymore!" he yells, turning on me. In truth, Cartman had lost a lot of weight, comparatively to his nine year-old self, and while he'd really filled out during junior high, getting taller, broader and a bit more muscular, there was a tiny bit of baby fat that remained. However, I'd also done some growing, actually becoming the second tallest of our group of four and possibly the skinniest, much to Stan's dismay and Cartman's outrage. Kenny had become almost freakishly tall, so I'd given up a long time ago trying to catch up with him.

"Oh right, you're just big-boned?" I ask in mock innocence, arching an eyebrow inquisitively in his direction. Cartman shoots me a seething look, as if he's ready to rip off my little Jew head, and he makes a move as if he's about to when suddenly Stan comes to my rescue.

"So anyway," he trails in as if it were the two of us who'd interrupted him, "I was thinking that to commemorate the start of this new school year, we could…oh, I don't know, raid my parents liquor cabinet and play a few video games, then probably pass out wasted on my couch, for old times sake? It is after all, a Friday tradition."

Kenny nods enthusiastically and when it seems like he'd about to say something, Cartman cuts him of.

"I can't."

His tone is casual but I get this prickling sensation in my stomach that tells me something is most definitely up. Stan gives him a doubtful look but Kenny just bursts into laughter, gripping his sides almost comically as his cheeks turn red from straining.

"Why the fuck not, dickwad?" he gasps between bouts of his uncontrollable giggling. Kenny had long since ditched the hood on his parka, settling with just letting his hair grow out into shaggy blonde tresses that hang straight like a curtain, nearly concealing his piercing blue eyes. He glances back up at Cartman through his bangs and I can see clearly the amusement dancing in his gaze.

"I'm busy, all right?" The reply sounds defensive and it only makes Kenny laugh harder.

"What would you be doing instead? I mean, seriously who would go on a date with your fat ass?" This makes Stan start to snicker and I try and bite back my own chuckles my clenching my teeth down tightly on the inside of my cheek. Cartman explodes beside me, launching himself at Kenny with a string of curse words.

"Fuck you, Kenny, you poor piece of shit!" Cartman and Kenny roll across the frosted ground, just a barrage of punches and kicks while Stan and I look on with mild disinterest. This happens more and more often as Kenny seems to always be pushing the Nazi asshole too far, which used to be my job.

"At least I can get with a girl, bastard," the blonde counters, quickly getting to his feet and diving behind me for cover, which seems suddenly like a bad idea. Oddly enough, Cartman pauses, at a loss for what to say.

"_Anyway,_" Stan interjects himself a tad more forcefully, putting himself between Cartman and me, "what the hell _are_ you doing tonight that's so important you can't even hang out with us? Who could possibly cooler than us, dude?"

His dark brown eyes get this far-away look, like he's seeing something very unpleasant on the horizon as he turns away from Stan, his shoulders slumping. Then Cartman sighs in the most un-Cartman-like way possible, his whole frame nearly collapsing in on himself. Just then, the teen we'd all come to know and hate looked so forlorn, it was yet again hard for me not to laugh.

"It's none of any of your guys' business." Once more with the defensive tone but this time we let him be, collectively deciding that if Cartman wanted to be Mr. Aloof, then fuck him.

Eventually we default silence and stay that way until the bus shows up to pick us up. The bus driver, an old haggard lady who's much more soft-spoken than the women we had as children, gives us the same questioning look as always; it seems that only Freshman ride the bus nowadays but we've been doing it for all four years, meeting at the same bus stop, and even sitting the same place in the back.

"Ma'am," Kenny greets her with sarcastic bow but Stan grabs him before he can make an even bigger ass of himself. We all crowd into out seat, me being sandwiched between the window and, most unpleasantly, Cartman.

Beside him, Kenny and Stan begin to chat idly about the sleepover, having a casual discussion about what liquor we should open, Kenny defending his 'good pal' Jack Daniels and Stan campaigning for Captain Morgan. Unsurprisingly, Cartman and I don't get involved. I glance back out my window, sighing and fogging up the glass as a result.

A thick arm reaches across me, drawing in a little swastika right in front of my face. Not even glancing back at the Nazi next to me, I etch in the Star of David right next to it, feeling Cartman's eyes on me. Triumphantly, I cross my arms and breathe out against the window, bringing our little designs back to life before fading away yet again, but before either of us can do anything else, we've pulled up in front of the High School's gates.

Kenny tips an invisible hat as we exit.

School passes as all days do – slow and excruciatingly boring, with Craig making unnecessary hand gestures (namely with his middle finger) at the substitute in English. I do my work, stay quiet, and thanks Abraham for the weekend.

I've really been needing a break and hanging out with guys is going to be awesome, especially since I won't have to deal with Cartman being around. Lately, what with my senior year just starting, my parents – namely my mom – have really been on my case about grades and colleges even more than normal. Studying is all I ever seemed to do during my sophomore and junior year, so for once I wanted to live it up with my friends before I end up moving out of the state or something.

I meet with Kenny, Stan and Cartman at the gates once more, my backpack loaded with text books along with the promise of a full weekend of studying and hard work.

"Man, this is going to be great," Stan pipes up, severing my thoughts.

"Yup, a good night without the resident fat-ass," I say, giving a pointed look at Cartman who unfortunately does not seem up for an argument.

"Oh, but _Kahl_, he's not fat remember? Just big-boned," Kenny coos, his voice imitating that of Cartman's usual nasally drawl. The 'big-boned' teen gives a low threatening growl, Kenny's one warning to knock it off.

"Well, you know what they say; a _whale_ by any other name…," I trail off with a careless shrug, still attempting and failing to conceal my grin. Stan snickers as Cartman is now steaming, his cheeks holding a faint blush of anger and embarrassment as his fists clench and unclench at his sides.

"A whale? Why so generous Kyle, he's practically another Rosie O'Donnell!"

We all erupt into laughter at Cartman's expense. I grip myself, tears pricking at my eyes as I try and catch my breath. I felt a little bad for the fatass, but truthfully, he deserved every one of our insults, what with all the shit he's put us through over the years. Once more, we're all expecting Cartman to just lose it and murder Kenny.

"Fuck you guys, I'm going home!" he shouts, striding off to his house across the street and not once looking back. We all watch as he slams the door shut behind him before falling into another fit of laughter, howling and snorting all the way back our separate homes.

I'm still fighting off giggles as I close and lock my own front door behind me, though as I venture farther into my house, there's a suffocatingly tense atmosphere. Normally, Ike would've been home by now and playing on our X-box loudly in the next room, but there's only silence and a terrible stillness. Slipping off my snow boots, I creep as slowly and quietly as I can towards my room, barely making a sound as I even tried to stifle my breathing momentarily.

"Kyle."

Shit. My mother seems almost devil like when she just calls out for me, already knowing that I'm home. My heart drops to my stomach. Shit shit shit.

Forcing my feet to move, scuffle into the dining room only to see my mother's plump frame engulfing one of the chairs as she stares back at me with dark green eyes that are frighteningly similar to my own. One thing that might rival my hate for Cartman – my hate for being reminded that I'm my mother's child. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate her raising me and giving birth, all that jazz, but it didn't make her my role model, far from it.

"Yes, mother?" I try to sound pleasant, show her what a polite son she raised. Nothing. She barely even looks at me but instead down at a crumpled piece of paper that has been re-flattened under her laced fingers. Oh god, I think I'm going to hurl.

"Would you like to explain this to me?"

She turns around the paper so I can see the fat D- in red marker across the margin and feel dread begin to burn within my very bones. I'm screwed, royally, as it seems.

"I…," no words come forth. What can I say? How could I even defend myself? "I made a stupid mistake."

This does not have its desired effect on my mom. She stands up, nearly toppling the chair over behind her, looking as if she's ready to smack me.

"A stupid mistake?" she hisses. "Is that what you want to call it, because if you keep this up, you can kiss Harvard goodbye, young man. I will not allow you to throw your future away as a lawyer just because you're slacking off, do you understand me? If this continues, you can also kiss any and all of your college funding goodbye too."

"But, I do study-,"

"No buts, Kyle, now go to your room. I want you to review this test and see why you made a _stupid mistake_ and finish your homework because I will be going over it with you," she threatens.

"Fine," I agree, holding my hands up in surrender. Each time we have discussions like this, I find it harder and harder to control my rage, my desire to talk back, but last time I did that, I got a very nasty slap in the face and grounded for a month, so I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood.

"I can't believe it," Mom continues crossly, getting up from her place at the table with a thick grunt, "I let you have so much freedom, and you repay me by failing a test. I don't know why you can't be more like your younger brother Ike; he gets A's on all of his tests, never gets into any trouble."

"Mom, he's also only in sixth grade! You can't possibly-,"

It's a feeble protest which instantly sends Mrs. She-demon into a torrent of fury.

"How dare you talk back to me, you disgraceful son, how dare you! When I was a child, I would have gotten the paddle for speaking in such a way to my parents!"

She makes a move forward, drawing her hand back like she's going to hit me again.

"Shut the fuck up!"

I go from zero to sixty in a matter of seconds, exploding as I suddenly find myself screaming with an amount of vehemence that I'd kept locked away all this time.

"You're always pushing me, never letting me have anytime just to relax. It's always, "Kyle, do this" "Kyle, do that" "Kyle, you're such a disappointment" "Kyle, you need to be more like Ike". Kyle Kyle _Kyle_!" My voice hits a new kind of loud, practically tearing my throat muscles and making my lungs shake with how much volume I'm pouring into this.

Anger, so red hot and boiling, consumes every fiber of me, making me want to hit something, destroy senselessly. I snatch my mother's hand, gripping down tightly and applying enough strain on her to make her resolve suddenly falter. For the first time in my life, I see fear and am glad that I'm the one causing it.

"I'm so fucking done," I snarl. Turning on my heel, I storm up to my room, stomping on each step hard enough where I hope I break through the wood, and slamming my door with so much force that I actually knock a few pictures off of the walls.

The first thing I go to is my stereo, cranking up some heavy metal as loud as it can go, not satisfied until I feel the base reverberating in my chest. I pace across my carpeted floor for what feels like hours, just trying unsuccessfully to cool off. Pacing, back and forth, back and forth, I feel like a caged rat, a caged little Jew-rat. Cartman would be proud that I could at least admit it.

All I can see outside of my window is the sun that's very steadily descending upon the horizon and I make a snap decision. I have to get out of this place; I have to go somewhere before I lose it. For a moment, as I'm poised on my window sill, I think of going to Stan's house, but that suddenly doesn't seem far enough away. I have to get farther, put as much distance between me and this fucking place as possible.

I use the tree outside my house to escape as gracefully as I can without falling on my butt, which is a major personal win, but I don't revel in it too long and instead practically sprint to the Gray Hound bus stop a few blocks away. Cars pass, the passengers giving me obvious stares of confusion but I ignore them, not allowing myself the second to regret this because I know deep down that if I stop, then I'll go back to that house where she is – and I just can't handle that.

Luckily, the bus pulls up within five minutes or so of my arrival, and, after dropping in a little change into the fare box, I take a seat in the back. Old Habits die hard, I guess.

There are few people on the bus, as expected for a little isolated town in Colorado. I glance out my window into the fading light of the evening, watching the cold unforgiving landscape rush by in a blur.

I take the night bus as far as it can go, all the way into the next town over, and even then I don't stop. The air nips at any part of my exposed flesh as I walk down the unknown street, but the farther I go, the better I begin to feel. The sun has completely disappeared, leaving me at the mercy of the cold winter air.

My boots crunch the thin layer of snow underfoot and with my hands stuffed firmly into my pockets, I keep my eyes cast downward as I pass by drug stores and small cabin-like houses. Their golden light spills across my path but I don't look up, too lost in my own blank thoughts. Finally, something draws my attention.

A new neon blue light drenches everything with its radiance, turning everything around me a darker shade and the snow cerulean. I glance up at the sign of the bar and feel a sudden tug at my lips at the title.

_Barbwire_.

Clever, and there's even a bit of the real stuff strewn around the neon cursive name, making it look tough but entirely inviting. The outside of it is a dark wood and the red leather double-doors of the front are practically calling to me. I take a deep breath, and then make a reckless decision.

The interior of _Barbwire_ is not unlike the exterior – the walls are a dark wooden paneling along with the floors. Booths take up the left side of the wall and a few smaller tables joining them. To my immediate right, there's a narrow hallway that leads to undoubtedly the bathroom, but as I venture in deeper, there's a long and extensive bar, stools lined up and adorned with vibrant red leather, and pressed against the back walls of where the restrooms share.

Straight ahead is a stage, risen above the ground level by a good couple of feet, but under that, there's a level below that makes the stage seem higher. In the lowered area, there are several smaller tables, stools and booths, all facing the stage for an audience. And then something else catches my eye – there are silver striper poles scattered about, though are oddly enough unoccupied.

"Son? Can I help ya'll?" the bartender twangs in a heavy Texan accent, stroking his handlebar mustache as he eyes me. My feet carry me over to one of the several stools and I plop down, feeling suddenly fatigued, and somehow, my eyes seem to communicate this to the man.

"I just really need a drink," comes my hoarse reply.

The man sighs, and I know he knows that I'm not twenty-one but then he doesn't ask for ID, much to my astonishment, and pours me a glass of whiskey over a few ice cubes. I think that's the kindest thing anyone's ever done for me. Smiling wide at him, a take a sip of the alcohol and let it burn its way down the back of my throat, chasing away the chills of the night.

Suddenly, from behind me, a piano starts up, playing up the scale and then hitting a few cords.

"On Friday nights, we have a musical entertainment rather than the usual gals," the man explains, glimpsing my puzzled face. "She ain't quite like the strippers, but we actually get more customers on her nights than any other, plus she's a pretty good singer."

There's a few whoops and hollers from the subordinate level where I now begin to take note of quite a few men. Some are sitting in at the tables at ground level, minding their business with their own beverage, but most are down below.

And then a woman walks onto the stage, her high heel pumps clacking against the wood. I guess the best word would be _curvaceous_ to describe her, but even then that doesn't quite fit.

With long dark brown hair that falls in pretty curls at her shoulder, she's not half bad looking. She bats her fake eyelashes back at the crowd, her lighter amber eyes standing out from under her smoky eye makeup which is coupled with deep red lips that almost seem at a permanent pout. A giant feathery red boa conceals her neck and shoulders, falling down to her mid-thigh. For a top, it's a black leather corset with crimson lacing all up both sides that seems to make her look more petite than she truly is. Underneath that, there is a matching pair of black leather booty short that then clips onto her tights, which stretch all the way up her _generous_ legs. And then to top it all off, she's wearing black pumps that have a small red bow on the top.

Is she ugly? No, but she's no Megan Fox. Is she fat? More like she has a few curves to spare. Can she sing? I wait patiently to find out.

"Hit it Ruben," she says in a smooth voice. The baby grand, tucked off to one side of the stage, begins to spout a very familiar melody, though I can't place it immediately.

_"I wanna hold 'em like they do in Texas pla~ays, fold 'em, let 'em hit me – raise it, baby stay with me."_

The woman begins to sing, her voice a very strange sound. It was good, smooth, and reminded me of the liquor I had in my hand, scorchingly cool. Yes, she can certainly sing.

_"Russian roulette,"_ she belts out, her voice reaching a new octave, _"is not the same without a gun, and baby when it's love if it's not rough it isn't fun."_

_"Can't read my, can't read my, no he can't read my poker face, she's got to love nobody."_

Her voice is tantalizingly familiar, and as the song plays on, I become more and more certain that I've heard her singing before, though I just can't place where. _The radio?_ My brain supplies unhelpfully but I know instantly that that's not it. Somewhere else, but where? Contemplatively, I take a drink of my whiskey.

And it's not just the voice either, there's something about the way she looks too, something vaguely familiar. Every time she smiles, there's this glint in her eyes that I'm positive I've seen somewhere before. I rack my mind for answers, but find none.

As the song draws to a close, I study her closely, her eyes, her nose, her mouth, trying to glean how it is that this person reminds me so much of someone, though not someone I can picture.

"…_He's got me like nobody_."

The small crowd explodes with applause, whistling and cheering for her, who in return just grins back, beaming at them while she give a slight curtsey.

"Thanks, you guys," she nods graciously.

And then it hit me, like a train, like an avalanche. A gripping realization so powerful that I actually drop my whiskey glass, but I don't register until I hear the crash of it shattering upon the floor. I forget how to breathe; nothing makes sense, because standing up on that stage is Eric Cartman.


	2. Chapter 2

**Athor's Note: Alrighty, second chapter as I lay the foundation for what is still yet to come. I've actually had a ton of fun writing this and I really hope you guys all enjoy this as much as I do. Also, I'm sorry I didn't have this up earlier, because I totally meant to, especially after reading the awesome reviews, which I give mucho mucho thanks for. Really, I appriciate all the kinds words, so in return, I hope you all really enjoy this next chapter. **

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Chapter 2: Incentives

Silence.

I lock eyes with Cartman, who at this point has noticed me as well, his face going slack in horror as he reflects my own shock tenfold. My mind is reeling, but no coherent thoughts surface.

_Cartman in drag. Cartman in drag. Cartman in drag._

Like a broken record it's all I can process, all I can comprehend in that one split second. In the background, somewhere far away sounding, the bartender is yelling at me for dropping my drink and making a mess. I can barely hear him over the roar of my blood pounding in my ears. I don't know whether to puke, laugh or cry.

"C-Cart…man-?"

"Kyle!" he cries in a falsetto voice, drowning out whatever I was trying to say. Cartman prances down the stage steps in his high heels, obviously used to wearing them and hurrying over like he's glad to see me, but in those deep brown depths there is unmistakable fear. He draws me into a brief hug, plastering on this hugely fake grin as I try and not choke on feathers from his boa.

"Mick, this is my good friend Kyle," Cartman introduces me using that same higher pitched voice, trying to sound like a girl and really turning on his charm. "I haven't seen him in ages, so if we could just have a moment outside, that'd-be-great-kay-thanks!"

He pushes me out the door with him, the cool night air instantly around me, clearing my muddled head for one moment, but a flood of questions comes in so fast I feel like I might faint. And, taking one more look at Cartman, I think I just might.

"What are you doing here?" My voice comes out strained.

"The fuck are _you_ doing here?"

"Don't try and turn this around onto me, fat-ass," I open my mouth to continue when a sickly sweet scent assaults my senses. "Are you…are you wearing _perfume_?" I ask incredulously, my mouth falling open once again.

"So what if I am?"

Unconsciously, I give him another look-over, taking in everything about this new side of the fat-ass. My eyes rest on his chest for a moment, vaguely wondering why it looks like Cartman actually has tits, to which part of my brain suggests that he actually _is_ a girl.

Then I reach out, my body seemingly on auto pilot as I grab where Cartman would have boobs and feel something squish in my palms. _Oh my god_. Cartman's face goes a deep shade of red as I pull backwards as if he'd burnt me with a startled yelp.

"Dude, you have…are they even real?"

"No, asshole, they aren't!" he shouts, taking a defensive step backwards as if he needed distance between us suddenly, which I gladly allow. "If you tell anyone about this, Jew, anyone at all, I will fucking murder you and your cheap-ass kike family, understood dickface?"

I just look at him for a long moment, slowly calming myself down as an idea beginning to form in the recesses of my mind, spawned from the alcohol and undoubtedly giving me the courage to finally say what I want.

"Well, Cartman, I'm not really sure that would make much of a difference. I mean, if I tell, whose word would they believe, mine or yours? Plus, anyone who questions me could just come down and see for themselves that I'm not lying. And somehow, I don't think you want to quit this job."

Cartman splutters, looking absolutely horrified as he finally spits out, "I-its pays well, something you should understand, you nosey Jew-son of a bitch."

"I'm sure it does, but what will you do in order to keep me quiet?"

"Huh?"

"Well, sure," I say with a shrug, "I suppose you could murder me, but I'd rather be dead than have everyone know that I go out on Friday nights dressed like that." I gesture at his scanty outfit, to which his face goes an even deeper shade of red.

"Just what the fuck are you getting at?" His eyes narrow down into suspicious slits back at me, and look genuinely angry. "Do you want money or something?"

"No, no, no, my dear _friend, _if you don't want anyone to find out about this little incident," my voice takes on a lower of seriousness, "then I suggest we make a little deal. How does that sound? You become my slave for an indefinite amount of time, do anything that I command, and in return, I keep my mouth shut. Deal?"

For a long moment, Cartman just stares down at my outstretched hand, thick eyelashes gong up and down as he blinks, and then I see it – bitter defeat. Cartman knows in same moment that I do that this time, I've won; whatever reason that has Cartman doing this job, whether it is the money or something a tad more personal, has outweighed his stubborn pride, bending him to my will. With resignation, the cross-dressing teen grips my hand in his own, his red nail polish shimmering back at me. His brown eyes meet mine completely.

"Deal."

. . . . . . .

Sunlight spills in obstinately through any and all crack between my blinds, dimly illuminating my room. With a groan, I roll onto my back, pushing back the mess of fiery curls atop my head from my face. My head is pounding and my mouth feels sticky and dry. I have a blissful moment, laughing to myself as images of Cartman in drag appear before my mind's eye, wondering to myself why I'd dream something so stupid and just plain awkward.

And then, as I swing my legs over the side of my bed, it all comes rushing back to me full force. The _Barbwire_, me staying for the rest of Cartman's show, the fight with my mom, drinks – whiskey, and then riding back on the bus with Cartman, sneaking back into my room, the heavy metal CD on a loop as it plays over and over.

I throw myself out of my room and down my hall as I recklessly make a dash for my bathroom before hurling my guts up into the toilet. For a stunned moment, I just sit there, my body shaking as I try to catch my breath, the bitter taste of vomit sticking to my tongue.

"You're lucky, you know," Ike says as he leans against the open door frame, still in his pajamas. I notice in that moment that all I'm wearing is my pair of black boxers. Taking my silence, he continues, "Mom was so upset that she just sat in the living room, looking through our old photo albums and not even saying anything when Dad came home. Neither of them bothered going into your room, and just decided to 'leave you to yourself' for the night."

Finally, I tore my gaze away from the toilet, meeting my brother's curious gaze with my own blank stare. I had no excuses other than simply I went out, got drunk, and hung out with drag-queen Cartman, pretty much making him my bitch by the end of the night. I threw up again.

Ike sighed audibly, leaning over to give me almost an affectionate pat on the back before murmuring something about me being a crazy teenager as he wandered back towards his room.

Left to myself, I decided then to shower and least try and wash off the smell of smoke and liquor from my skin and hair. Afterwards, I felt refreshed, though my mild hangover was still as pressing, and even went back to my room to slip into some clean clothes – jeans, a black t-shirt, and a green button-up over that. I found my trapper hat abandoned by the rest of my clothes, but it smelled like the bar, so I decided to let my hair down for the day.

Ever since Freshman year, I'd decided to get my hair cut back until it was almost normal looking – well, as normal as hair as red as flames could possibly look – but I still didn't go around without my hat on much, especially at school where Cartman would just make fun of me for being a "day walker".

Taking the stairs down two at a time, I reached my living room, which seemed now like a war-zone. Papers and pictures were strewn across our coffee table and most were spilling off onto the floor, a scattered mess that usually reflected how my mom was feeling. I glanced over some of the photos, most of them pictures of me as an infant, as young as a baby or as old as seven. There was even one of me and the guys, looking as if we were fresh out of our first day in kindergarten. My arms were slung around Cartman's neck as I was practically hanging off of him, giggling back at the camera. Stan and Kenny were on my other side, smiling just as big, though Kenny was missing his two front teeth at the time.

Then the sound of someone else descending the stairs is enough to snap me from my abrupt reverie, reminding me why I came down here to begin with.

"Kyle? Kyle, is that you?"

I hear my dad's concerned voice calling out to me but I brush it off, making a break for the front door in hopes of beating him to me. He calls after me again, but is drowned out as I slammed the door behind me, dashing to Stan's house across the street.

Stan's front door opens without me even having to use my key to his house (he gave me one sometime ago in middle school since we were practically family) and I'm greeted with clutter – empty pizza boxes and liquor bottles strewn across the carpet, the couch stripped of its cushions which are also scattered, and my two best friends face-down at the center of this pigsty.

"Kenny," I call out, giving the lump of orange parka a swift kick. It mumbles and shifts slightly but doesn't make a move to get up. Kneeling down, I have to roll Kenny onto his back and tug his hood off to get a good look at him. His blonde hair is sticking out at odd angles and his mouth is smeared with pizza sauce as a terrible aroma of alcohol wafts off of him.

"Hey, dude," Stan greets me, sitting up but only to reveal that he's about in the same shape as Kenny, if maybe a bit better. "What happened to you last night? Kenny and I had to play guitar hero and get smashed without you."

"Something came up," I try to dodge his question but Stan just gave me that look, the one that said _I'm your super-best-friend, remember_? "Look, maybe I'll tell you later, but aren't you parents coming back into town today?"

"Shit!"

This sends him into a flurry as he rushes off to the kitchen and returning a second later with large industrial black garbage bags. In my arms, Kenny slowly begins to come to, blinking his eyes like they've been glued together. His clear blue eyes glance around a little bit, focusing on me as a goofy smile comes across his face.

"Dude, I think I might be having the worst hangover in my life," he whispers, still smiling moronically. I give him a playful tap on the head then slide him off of my lap to go help Stan clean up, taking one of the bags to myself and pick a corner.

"So, I really am sorry I missed out on your sleepover," I apologize, dumping what looks to be a half-eaten Twinkie in the bag. "I just…I got in a fight with my mom, said some shit, then took off for the night. I was going to come over, but I needed to get the fuck out of here, put as much distance between me and her as possible. I got so hammered I'm not even really sure how I got home. All I remember is sneaking back into my room through my window."

"…Dude…," Stan trails off. I peek over my shoulder just long enough to see him stride across the mess to pull me into an awkward back-hug, abandoning his trash bag. He holds me tightly, pressing his face into my shoulder blades as he murmurs something else to me, but I don't catch it. Kenny just gives me a sympathetic look from his place on the carpet, upside down as he cranes his neck backwards to watch us.

I try really hard not to squirm, but honestly? I hate hugs. Sure, I'll give them when it seems appropriate, like when Kenny was dying that one time and Cartman needed comfort – but just for getting in a family fight? Well, I guess I must have sounded more hurt than I felt.

"Thanks, Stan, _really_," I say as gratefully as possible, shrugging out of his embrace, "but it's not that big of a deal."

For a moment, I want to tell him about Cartman, about our little deal and how that seemed to just blow everything out of proportion. Maybe that's why I'm taking this whole 'mom-fight' thing really well. But I don't.

Stan drops this topic and then begins to aimlessly ramble about his plans with Wendy for this weekend. Caught in my own thoughts, I hear about every other word. Aquarium this, movie that, it's all the same and sometimes I think Stan knows he talks too much, but for some reason, I think he also already knows that him just talking calms me down. I could listen to him listlessly for hours.

. . . . .

Monday rears its ugly head, and despite all of the crap I'd gone through over the weekend, I still found myself practically bouncing to the bus stop, giddy to put Cartman to work. Sure enough, Kenny, Stan and the fat-ass are all lined up, looking almost incomplete without me standing beside them. Cartman visibly tenses up as I take my place to stand beside him.

"Hey Kyle," Stan greets me, followed by Kenny's casual nod.

"Hey guys…fat-ass," I give him a sidelong glance, and we share a very pointed look. Time to put my plan into action.

_Plunk_.

My Statistics book hits the snow with a dull impact, and for a moment, we all just stare at it, nobody making a move toward it.

"Cartman, pick it up."

Stan and Kenny exchange concerned looks but Cartman plays it off cool, snagging it by the spine and even brushing it off a little before replacing it in my awaiting hands.

"You're welcome, _Kahl_," he snorts back.

As soon as I have a good grip on my text book, I once more let it fall out of my reach, this time purposefully dropping it, or so it would seem. Those dark brown eyes, filled with rising frustration, meet my own. I could tell that Cartman had to severely bite back any and all insults that were no doubt waiting to come tumbling out. Oh, not today, fat-ass, not today.

"Pick. It. Up," I command, a sly smirk crossing my features. He does as he's told, eyes focusing on the book as his cheeks turn a faint hue of pink. Oh sweet humiliation, thy name is Cartman.

"That's so cool," Kenny breaths, looking awestruck by what just happened. "Kyle, either you grew a pair of balls, or Cartman, you just got whipped by your little Jew."

"Yeah, seriously guys, what happened?" Stan arches on of his dark eyebrows back at us from underneath his beanie.

"Well," I glance at Cartman who gives me a slightly alarmed look before continuing, "let's just say that Cartman lost a bet and so he kind of has to do anything and everything I say from now on."

I didn't like lying to the guys, especially Stan, but in order to keep this little deal working, I was going to have to. Concealing Cartman's secret would only be beneficial to me at this point and honestly, if I told anyway, I'm pretty sure Cartman wouldn't hesitate to murder me.

"Oh, nice dude," Stan gave me an appreciative nod.

"Yeah, no kidding. Now you own his ass, and his balls. Way to go Kyle," Kenny clasped my shoulder in congratulations. "I don't suppose you could lend him to me sometime?"

"Shut up, Kenny!" Cartman raged, curling his hands into fists.

"I'd like to see you try and make me, Lard-o!"

Cartman makes a lunge at him but Kenny moves behind me, gripping down on my shoulders tightly as he snaps, "Alright, Kyle, time to make your little slave stop trying to kill me. I've been on a good luck streak – not a single death in months!"

"Fat-ass," I say sternly, pointing a finger at him as if he were my pet. At first he looks pissed, but then he notices the mischievous glint in my eye as I move out of Kenny's grasp. "Sic 'em."

. . . . .

The first part of the day with Cartman under my power passes quickly and relatively painless – well painless for me moreover, but probably more like agonizing for the fat-ass. I don't ask a whole lot from him, mainly just to carry my shit around and to do stupid little things for me like retie my shoelaces and what not. Most of my time is spent telling him to shut it, much to everyone –especially Wendy's – delight.

That is, until lunchtime rolls around.

I'm seated at the usual table with all the guys, enjoying the arbitrary chatter. So far, Kenny and Stan hadn't yet spilled the beans that Cartman was my slave, who had to do everything and anything I commanded, which as fine with me. The merciful side of me wanted to keep this mostly a secret so that way people wouldn't try and pry into the situation too much but I guess also because even I had a limit on how ashamed I wanted to make the Nazi bastard feel.

But as usual, Cartman has to push it.

"…and I'm telling you guys, gingers are seriously going to take over the world if don't watch their pale asses," he rants between bites of mashed potatoes.

"No they won't, fat-ass," I argue back without a second thought.

Everyone quiets down as they wait for the inevitable fight to follow, watching Cartman for his response. It seemed like most of the time, if Cartman and I weren't bickering over something, then everyone else was bored out of their mind, which was more or less true.

"Sure, coming from the day-walker," he retorts.

"Stop being a total fag, you douche," I snap. A smirk plays at the corners of Cartman's mouth before being replaced by his angry scowl.

"Why don't you stop being such a kike, or a Jersey asshole, Kyle? God, you gingers piss the shit out of me."

That does it – I'm officially pissed off, and apparently by the glare I'm giving Cartman, everyone else knows it too, especially him who just gives me that triumphant look as he crosses his arms over his chest. I open my mouth to launch into the argument full force, but then something stops me. Pursing my lips, I glance back down at my tray of food thoughtfully.

"Cartman," I say slowly, tasting his name of my tongue. The air is crackling with tension as the group leans in slightly in anticipation. "Feed me."

No one says anything, and the whole cafeteria goes silent, most likely out of confusion. Suddenly, Kenny begins to snicker and Stan coughs a few times in an attempt to cover up his own laughter that's bubbling to the surface.

I finally cast a look over at Cartman, whose face has gone slack in horror, eyes wide and blank. Victory, compassion be damned, but I feel the need to rub it in a little more, so, smirking devilishly back at him, I lean forward just so.

"That's an order," I whisper deliberately, waiting patiently for his reaction.

His face seems to shut down, his mouth turning simply into a grim line. I couldn't have asked for a better audience with him because now Cartman knows very damn well that if he doesn't do as I say, I'll tell the whole school, get up on the table and just shout it to everyone. Once more, I see him mentally weigh the situation before giving me the most scathing look I think I've ever received from him.

Cartman picks up the spork resting on my plate, gulps, and then spoons a small bite of mashed potatoes on it. His cheeks begin to light up red with embarrassment as he brings the food up to my lips, his hand shaking slightly. Grinning, I open my mouth wide enough to just barely permit access, sucking off the gooey slop, but for a moment keeping my teeth clamped down so that Cartman is unable to draw away for a moment.

"Wow, you're right Cartman, defeat is so _delicious_," I practically moan, releasing the utensil.

The table howls with laughter, Craig actually falling off of the bench from laughing so hard. Butters is snorting and giggling but apologizing with every shaky breath he can draw in while Tweek twitches and screams between chuckles. Kenny meanwhile is grasping onto Stan, burying his face into his shoulder as he cracks up, Stan himself covering his mouth to try and quell his amusement.

"Dude," Token shakes his head, trying to stop his giggling, "what the fuck?"

Before either Cartman or I can respond, Kenny launches into the details of how we made a bet that Cartman totally lost, making him my slave for an extensive period of time, making the fat-ass seem like a total idiot, which makes everyone else laugh even harder. Even the whole cafeteria is buzzing with how I finally got the upper hand and some are still chuckling.

At that point, Cartman's face is absolutely priceless – his cheeks and ears are burning with humiliation and his dark brown eyes reflect an absolute hatred for me that simply could not be outmatched by anything else. I have won, bested him in his own game and couldn't be happier about it. As the guys begin to share some more laughter and talk about Cartman and mine's deal, I share a look with the fat-ass, locking eyes with him. Everything seems to fade away into white noise – it's just me, and him.

"Jew."

"Fat-ass."

Some things never change.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Okay, so as promised, another update within a week. I was just sort of curious, but I figured that hey, I was going to ask this anyway, but if you guys had any suggestions or ideas or wants to have me special in this fic, then I would gladly fit it in, so long as you told me in a review, giving me the title and artist. Alright, so that said, how are you guys? 2011 treating you well? **

**Cool, so what do you guys think of this fic? Leave me your comments, please. Now, R&R bitches :)**

* * *

Chapter 3: We Like to Pretend

By the time Wednesday rolls around, my room is cluttered once more and my dad reluctantly musters up enough courage to tell me I need to clean it.

I swear, I lose it just once, and my parents treat me like some sort of wild animal, which Ike, annoyingly, happens finds so fucking hilarious he can barely contain himself. Dear old Mom has been avoiding me like the plague, and anytime we do find ourselves in the same room, she just blatantly gets up and leaves, not once looking at me.

So I guess you could say that not everything was quite running as smoothly as I'd hope.

"Hey, Cartman," I say thoughtfully, scratching as my chin pensively, "I don't suppose you're busy today, right?"

This stops him dead in his tracks in the middle of our walk home. His arms are full with my crap – namely my backpack and text books that I didn't really need at home but just wanted to make him carry anyway. Kenny and Stan are ahead of us a ways, going back and forth on which girl in their shared history class is the hottest.

"Not particularly," he manages to grind out between clenched teeth.

"Cool, then I guess you'll just be heading over to my house today where you can help me tidy up," I say nonchalantly.

At that point, I realize that Cartman has not begun walking again and is instead just glowering at me.

"Now way, Jew. That's going too far – I am not going to clean your shit up after you, so you can just suck my-."

"Fine," I interrupted, waving him off, "that's totally cool, dude. Hey Stan! Kenny!" I shout after them, taking off at a light jog to catch up. "You guys would not believe it! I have the funniest thing to tell you!"

The duo turn briefly to glance at me, both looking confused but amused at the same time. Yet, as I move to make another step toward them, I feel something firm and hot grip my wrist in a vice, yanking me backwards full force. It's like smacking into a brick wall, and momentarily, I find myself gasping for breath.

Cartman had abandoned our books and bags, dropping my stuff along with his in a tangled heap on the sidewalk, instead making a lunge for me. His other hand clamps around my mouth, leaving the words to come out muffled kind of like what Kenny used to sound like. Our position is a little awkward, seeing as I'm nearly an inch taller, but I figure he must be standing on his tippy-toes, not that he'd be unused to it what with wearing those high heels around all the time.

"Kyle and I were just going to go back to his house so I can help him clean his house a little bit, you know, what with this whole _servitude deal _we have, so don't wait up, assholes," he lies perfectly, smoothly – as if the act just comes so naturally to him, which of course it does but it never ceases to amaze me.

Feeling a tad childish and still mad at being silenced, I swipe my tongue across the inside of his palm, to which he yanks his hand back and looks horrified at the dab of wetness I'd left behind. As I pick up both of our shit, I get to listen to him bitch about my evil 'Jew germs' all the way to my room, still carrying everything.

I plop the junk down on my bed and then face-dive into my comforter, for a long moment just inhaling the smell of my house – fabric softener and mint gum.

"You call this messy?"

Tilting my head to one side, I see the fat-ass peeking around my room curiously, examining the several posters I have hanging on my walls and the clothes piles about in random places. I suppose to some people, apparently Cartman, it wasn't too bad comparatively but to me, it was just an absolute land fill. He approached my stack of CDs which were reduced to nothing but a pile after I'd rifled through it that fateful Friday night for something angst-y and hateful.

"Shut up and start picking up, dipshit," I murmured, propping myself back up on my elbows.

Oddly enough, Cartman does so without complaint.

I wander around my room, idly picking up any and all dirty clothes and tossing them into the hamper, while anything that's clean, I fold up and stuff back into my drawers. Behind me, Cartman is replacing my music back in two neat little stacks, at first appearing to alphabetize them but then I noticed that was not the case. He seemed almost to be just sorting them at will, examining the cover and then setting it either to his left or to his right. Eventually, I lose interest in staring at his back and trying to figure out what he's thinking so I immerse myself in my own mind as my hands fold absently.

Just as I begin to move onto another stack, Cartman begins to speak.

"Aren't you going to ask?"

"Ask what?" I don't turn around, but from the sudden lack of clattering plastic, I can tell that Cartman has paused momentarily.

"You know what."

Biting my lip, I try to respond as calmly as possible. "Dude, it doesn't really matter to me how you decide to spend your Friday nights, even if it means you slipping on some fishnets and dolling yourself up. I mean, despite me being a nosey little Jew-rat, when it comes to you and what you do, I really try not to concern myself, and after that whole incident, it's only reaffirmed that for me."

"That's not what I meant," he sighed. "You probably have at least wondered about my reasons, right Jew?"

I fall silent, and Cartman, blessedly, does so as well. Finally, I realize I have to say something.

"I never really…," I trail off, uncertain how to complete that thought. "I guess I just don't really question your motivations. Don't get me wrong, you're a sadistic, fat, ass-wipe, but…I don't question your reasoning behind it."

When Cartman doesn't respond, I figure he wants me to continue, so reluctantly I comply.

"It's not like I trust you, I just…if it's enough to make you go out there and sing and dance and whatever the fuck you do at that bar, then I won't wonder why, especially if it's enough to make you do as I say. Do you get what I'm saying at all? Whether you do it for the money or do it because you actually just like it, well it doesn't really make much of a difference to me. Either way, I still get to boss you around," I finish with a half-hearted shrug. I was being honest, having a rare moment where I was truly speaking my mind to Cartman about something we weren't fighting about.

This seems to satisfy him so returns to working, though now I feel a bit bolder.

"I do have something else I'd like to know."

Cartman twists slightly to face me as I mirror his movement. He makes a gesture for me to go ahead, and that's all I need.

"How exactly are you sorting my music over there?"

"By what's gay and not-as-gay, duh," comes his sarcastic response.

"Seriously."

"Who said I wasn't being seriously?"

Arching an eyebrow, I abandon my job, seating myself beside him with my legs crossed. I frowned as I picked up the CD off of the top of one of the piles.

"You think Queen is gay?"

"Well, yeah Freddie Mercury was a total ass-pirate, but for your information, that's the 'not-as-gay' pile."

"Ah. And what about this?" I ask, holding up one of my Coldplay albums. Cartman just snorts and replies by saying how gay that actually is, making some stupid and nonsensical analogy. Like old times, we default into bickering, going back and forth on what music even qualified as 'gay' or 'not-as-gay' which apparently, according to Cartman, there were innumerous.

"What exactly _do_ you like?"

Cartman shifts, obviously not wanting to answer my question. "I listen to a lot of crap, _Kahl_. I think you might have to be a little more specific than that."

"You know, you were singing _Pokerface_ at the bar…Oh god, don't tell me you actually like Lady Gaga!" I cried in horror, starting backwards. "I mean, _the Eric Cartman_ wants to take a ride on someone's disco-stick? I'm shocked, and more than just a little disgusted, but it would make sense with that whole get-up, and certainly would explain lots of things."

"Fuck you, Jew-rat. And just what the hell would it explain?"

"You obviously idolize her and so you want to follow in her footsteps by dressing in drag," I reply casually, with a flippant wave of my hand. This is getting under his skin and I'm probably enjoying myself more than I ought to, but pissing Cartman off is just to fun.

"Take that back, you slimy Jew bastard – Lady Gaga is a woman, not a man!" he shouts back at me, matter-of-factly.

I just give another shrug, "Whatever you say, fat-ass."

Now Cartman seems pissed, going back to sorting through the music, and I wind up lying on my back beside him, tracing the intricate patterns of my ceiling's stucco surface with my eyes. We just sit in comfortable silence of my room, though this seems so unnatural between us. There's never a moment's peace between us – it's just constant fighting, going over and rearguing stupid points that genuine are irrelevant. I guess I'm just not used to it yet.

When I turn my head to once more examine Cartman, something catches my eye: the top of an old flip-cell phone peaking out from the hem o his jean pocket. Without a second thought, I snatch the little thing, rolling on my side so Cartman can't yank the device out of my hands.

"Just what the fuck are you doing, you nosey-ass Jew shit?" He makes a move to grab for the appliance, reaching across me for it, but I stretch out my arms to their full length, not permitting him access to it yet. After pressing a few buttons and changing a few certain settings, I feel satisfied, handing it back to him.

"There. You're welcome," I smirk as he snatches the phone out from my palm and eyes it as if it were going to explode any second.

"The fuck did you do to it?"

I roll back over and sit up slightly, my hands ghosting over his to press the '2' button. Cartman shivers slightly out of the corner of my eye, but I brush it off, continuing with showing just what I did for him.

Sure enough, as soon as the key is pushed, my name pops up on the screen, a big "KYLE BROFLOVSKI" illuminating it with my newly added number displayed at the bottom. The funny thing was, I didn't even know that Cartman had a cell phone.

"Speed dial," I say, drawing back away from him, "so you're welcome."

Cartman pulls a face, wrinkling up his nose is disdain, but he doesn't comment. He just stares at my name and number blankly, lost in thought while I continue to watch him for any sort of reaction. I'm not really even sure myself what I wanted, maybe him being pissy and saying he'd go home or simply to kick up another fight.

"What're you thinking about, Nazi?" I ponder aloud. When the fat-ass doesn't respond, I say, "That's an order, asshole."

"Oh come on, _Kahl_," Cartman rolls his eyes. "I was just thinking about how faggy you are. Jesus Christ, you really are a total Jew."

"Shut up, douche bag."

"Back at 'cha, Jew-fag."

. . . . .

Friday night finds me sprawled out in my newly cleaned room across the floor, listening to sound of my mother yelling from downstairs. With the new octave her voice is taking on, I can tell she absolutely furious and at this point, there's no calming her down. Every now and again, I can hear my father's feeble attempt to calm her but to no avail.

From what I've been able to overhead, Ike ended up getting a C on one of his chapter tests and now she's reaming him for hanging out with that one Goth girl in his grade – Lilith, I think? – calling her a bad influence and occasionally saying how he'll end up like me. At first Ike was just taking this bitch-out like a man, stoic and silent, but then once Mother mentioned 'Lilith', Ike blew a gasket.

My younger brother is not exactly the combative type, per se. I mean, he and I will have our sporadic fights, but when it comes to our parents, he almost never talks back. But, as I was staring up at my ceiling, Ike was doing a whole hell of a lot more than just talking back, he was shouting, yelling, just as loud, if not more so, than our Mother.

"Fuck you, Mom," I heard him snarl, his voice muffled. "You don't know shit about Lilith and stop comparing me to Kyle. He has nothing to do with this! You're just mad because you can't control him anymore, and you sure as hell can't control me!"

"How dare you speak to me like that! I am your mother, the woman who adopted you! You should be grateful that I took you in, you insolent child. I can't believe that you'd…," her voice fades off into more incompetent blabber that I'm too tired to listen to anymore. Their argument just becomes noise, grunts, yells and sounds of outrage.

I glance back at my digital clock and see that the time is only 7. Groaning, I get to my feet, realizing that this clash between my brother and over-bearing mother will undoubtedly last long into the night and that this was just the beginning. I pull on my boots, trade-mark green ushanka, but trade up for a thicker, warmer black leather jacket instead of my usual wool orange coat.

Flinging open my window, the chilled Colorado air poured in, surrounding me. I was suddenly thankful for the tree outside of my window as I clambered across the thick branches until I went to my usual spot, an opening of the foliage with a flat limb that allowed me a clear view of my whole street.

Across the street, Stan's house was illuminated brightly, looking warm and inviting from my cold perch. I wrapped my arms around myself tightly. In his bedroom window, I could see him sitting on his bed, reading a book, which was very un-Stan-like. Downstairs, there was his mother and father, watching a movie together on the couch. The only window that was dark was Shelly's because she moved away to go to college.

Next to Stan's house, Cartman's was dark, looking almost abandoned. Every window was blacked out as if it had just sucked away any and all life. And then suddenly, the front door creaked open, startling me to the point where I nearly fell out of the tree.

Sure enough, a figure began to appear, but once more, I felt the breath die in my very lungs as Cartman turned around to reveal the same made-up face from that night last Friday. Cartman's hair fell just like I remembered it, soft dark curls just past his shoulders, obviously a wig but none the less stunning. Even from across the street, I could see his dark eye shadow and long fake lashes. Over what I would assume was another risqué outfit was a long beige trench coat, but I could still see his high heels sticking out from underneath.

Cartman paused for a moment, washed in the orange light of the street lamp, seeming to stare across at my house. I watched as he fished out his cell phone, still looking at my residence, raised the device up to his ear.

I didn't have to wait long before I realized who he was calling – me. Curiously, I fished out my phone and answered.

"Hey, fat-ass."

"'Sup Jew," I watched him say, though heard it a moment later against my ear.

"You certainly look nice, I don't suppose you're headed out to your little night job right now?"

This comment makes she-Cartman glance around uneasily. For once, I feel like the tormenter – dare I say, but the _Cartman_ of our relationship, which I suppose made him the _Kyle_ but whatever, I could focus on how self-deprecating our relationship was later: I needed to enjoy this moment. His eyes slide back over my house and then back to the phone once more. Tension is practically gearing up in his shoulder as we speak.

"What do you want, Jew?" he finally asks, sounding exasperated.

"I don't know; _you_ called _me_, remember?" my tone is cool, nonchalant, coming off quite smartly and I can tell Cartman is regretting this call already, the way he pinches the bridge of his nose kind of like Stan does when he's upset. Some traits must rub off.

He opens his mouth to respond, but I interrupt, on a roll.

"Here's another command: come get me out of this tree."

I flip my phone shut, ending the call and hoping that Cartman understands and doesn't just stand there looking at his cell like it's about to spontaneously combust the whole night. Eventually, as if my staring yanks his focus, he jolts forward, gazing directly at me but obviously not seeing me yet, though I still instinctively duck behind the branches slightly. In his stilettos, he walks over, surprisingly graceful in such high heels but moves like a pro, one foot daintily in front of the other, so balanced and poised, so un-Cartman-like.

Once he reached the base of the tree, peering up into the leaves, I sneak forward until I'm right at the edge. Hooking my arms around a sturdy branch, I lean forward, my face poking through a gap in hopes I can scare Cartman, but he just looks at me like I've lost my mind. So much for my plan.

"The fuck, Jew?" he asks, pouting his big red lips back at me. I force back a few sniggers. "Just jump down, you dumb kike. There is no way I'm going to catch you or some bull crap like that."

"So much for my prince, huh?" I call back. The words leave my mouth and suddenly, I wish I could take them back – that came out so wrong and seemed a shit load funnier in my head. Honestly, all I could think in that moment was all the times I'd sardonically called Stan my 'knight' when he'd come and 'rescued' me. All I get for my effort in that instant is a befuddled if not mildly disgusted look from my tranny-enemy.

"Uh…I-I mean, all I get is this? Seriously." My attempt at recovery is a failure captain. _Okay, Kyle, open mouth insert foot, please. And for the sake of all that is good, do not ever ever remove. _

But then Cartman smirks back up at me, lifting his arms up like he's expecting me to leap into them and says relatively straight-faced yet laced sarcasm, "Oh, Jew-punzel, Jew-punzel, let down your long ginger-fro!"

Without a second thought, I propel myself off of the tree trunk, letting my hold slip away. For one glorious moment, I'm flying. Time seems to slow as my jacket billows out behind me, my arms trailing behind, my breath rushing out of my lungs. But then gravity surges back, full force, toppling me down onto she-Cartman, though he manages to keep his ground amazingly in those pumps as his arms wrap around me constricting and tight as he receives me. My feet touch down and my head feels light as I take a step back from my nemesis who is now glaring at me.

"Asshole, I didn't think you were actually going to jump!" he hisses angrily, readjusting his wig.

"Well, slave," I begin to retort, "I do believe I gave you a direct order."

Touché. Cartman doesn't respond but instead, grumbling to himself, stalks off without me, leaving me to jog after him. Damn, he sure can storm away in those Jimmy Choos.

"Why the hell are you following me, Jew-rat?" is the first thing out of his mouth once I reach his side.

"Why the hell did you call me, lard-ass?" I mock the tone of his voice. No response again. "Look, I figure I could use a good laugh, so I'll come and see this little routine of yours again. Sound fair?"

He stays silent, so I take it as a 'you can come' type of silence, reluctantly falling into step with him. We walk for what seems to be the better part of an hour, but I hardly notice, too lost in my thoughts.

Admittedly, this whole situation seems fucked up, but yet again I have to remind myself of the fucked up relationship I already have with Cartman. Things could be worse, I suppose, though one look at him makes me doubt that entirely.

When it comes to this whole cross-dressing scenario, I'm not sure where I stand. I mean, it's really fucking hilarious, almost as funny as the time when Cartman found out he had AIDs, but at the same time, it's also very awkward. I like the fact that I'm finally getting something out of this, but what I don't understand is why Cartman would go through what would seem to be humiliation for money, and why it was that this bothered him so much. Cartman is, after all, still the kid who brought in a picture of him giving head to Butters all those many years ago.

It makes me wonder why he's so embarrassed about this in particular, unless of course it isn't about shame, but rather about his employers knowing the truth, then it's an entirely new situation. Cartman would then either really need the paychecks or really like his job, or both, and as such would go to any length to keep it a secret that he's actually a man. Which would make sense why he wouldn't want me to spill the beans, but somehow this doesn't seem likely moreover.

We reach the South Park bus stop, Cartman just leans against the metal post and sighs, his breath coming out in smoky puffs that curl in on themselves, self-destructing plums that fade away into the frozen air.

The bus comes around sooner rather than later, Cartman and I taking our seats in the back as we sat side-by-side awkwardly. All eyes were on us, passengers from what appeared to be a hobo, to an old Grandma stared openly, while others tried to be a tad more covert. Cartman crossed his arms impassively, giving them the darkest look he could muster, but it seemed to lose its edge considering he was, after all, dressed as a woman – the trench coat doing little to cover up his fishnet clad legs and sky-high heels.

However, while Cartman was trying to melt the face of an old lady off with his eyes, I notice another man, younger and maybe in his late thirties and balding, giving us a very different look. His eyes rake across my heavier companion, and even being spared the directness, my skin begins to crawl. He was one of those real creepy guys who you imagine watches kitty-porn on the weekends what with his beer gut and receding hairline (that is if you could call wisps a hairline at all). His thick glasses slip partially down his nose, and as he reached up to readjust them, his pale blue eyes flicker over to me.

It isn't often called for, but I put on my '_bring-it-on-mother-fucker'_ face. I'm daring him to even think of doing something.

I shift in my seat, draping one arm casually over Cartman's shoulders and scooting closer until our thighs nearly overlap. The man's glasses flash as he leans back in the bus chair, facing out toward the windows once more, but I can tell he's still observing us from his peripherals.

"Jew, earth to Jew!" Cartman's incessant whine finally reaches me. "What the fuck do you think you're-,"

"Shut up," I say in a low tone, and add almost automatically, "that's an order."

Cartman huffs but true to form, doesn't say a word. My stomach lurches as the man once more glances over at me, peering with perverted curiosity.

Grinding my teeth and plastering on a falsely tender smile, I face Cartman and say slowly through tight lips, "I have another order for you to follow, okay? It's not as hard as the first. I want you to lean against me – stay as close to me as you can, alright?"

He opens his mouth to object but I don't give him the opportunity as I pulled him against me and making him lean his head upon my shoulder, and then mine resting upon his. The man glares, I mentally flip him the bird, returning the glare tenfold.

"Just what are you trying to pull, asshole?" Cartman hisses. I keep my eyes trained straight ahead, never once leaving my target.

"I'm trying to make us look like a couple," I reply out of the side of mouth, "because that creepy perv over there has been eyeing you funny and I don't want any trouble – namely us having to kick the shit out of him."

"You're such a Jew all the fucking time."

"Fuck you."

"Not even if you paid me."

"Oh, get bent fat-ass."

We momentarily fall back into the repetitive banter, things for a brief moment seeming normal despite everything else going on. Cartman relaxes against me.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: So it took me a little while longer than originally expected to update this lovely little fic, which of course I do apologize for but midway through writing it, I decided that I really wasn't satisfied where I was going so I made a snap decision to hold off on an update and instead so a little re-write. That's my excuse and I'm totally sticking to it. Oh, that and the fact that I also currently am sick - like really really sick, so that sucks. **

**Anyway, I'd like to thank all of you people who review and subscirbe to this little story and I hope that you all enjoy this next chapter of Better Left Unsung. Reviews are rewarded with faster updates ;)**

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Chapter 4: Kiss with a Fist

Cartman and I step off the bus, me shooting a death glare at the creeper in the front seats as he blatantly checks out my friend-in-drag's ass, which actually made me gag a little bit. It's a short walk to the bar, during which neither of us speak, especially after that whole awkward incident. The last thing I want is to actually talk to the fat-ass about that – I mean, isn't it weird enough that I'm accompanying him to a strip bar where he can entertain several drunken men all the while wearing nothing more than a few strips of leather?

We enter through the front door, the bartender – Mick, I think – acknowledges me with a deft nod as he wipes a scotch glass out with a towel. Once again the hall is filled with smoke that just seems to float, giving the bar this darker atmosphere plus the dim lighting. Cartman asks in his girly voice for a cosmopolitan and orders me a martini on the rocks before clacking off to the stage.

"A little surprised to see you back here," Mick comments dryly, focusing on his task at hand as I watch she-Cartman make 'her' way up the stairs.

"Well, I didn't want hi – erm, her to have to make the trip alone again, so I figured it was the least I could do."

The man set both drinks back down on the wood in front of me, eyeing me carefully as I pick up my glass for a sip. The alcohol burns its way down my throat but it felt good to have the liquor back on my tongue again, especially after the stressful week I'd been having.

Once again, I'm a little surprised by his lack of concern over my age, but I figured hanging around the 'entertainment', namely Cartman, had given me an exempt quality somehow. Not questioning this little miracle anymore, I pick up my own drink and Cartman's very colorful one with a little orange spiral hanging decoratively off one side and go seat myself in a booth this time closer to the stage.

Cartman's off to one side, talking to the mildly concealed band animatedly, turning on his charm.

Then, the lights begin to go down, one stage light coming on, and so the din of the bar conversation begins to die down as well. It's time for the show to start.

"_You hit me once, I hit you back."_

The smooth voice of Cartman drifts across the stage and out to the audience as he begins singing an unfamiliar tune, so far only the solid thump of a concealed drum keeping pace. Now without the trench coat on, I can see that Cartman had traded outfits, this time it's a black mini dress with dark blue lace frills and bows for trims. With that, he has on a pair of fish net leggings and knee-high heeled boots, and as before a boa, though this time it's black, the feathers glint oily rainbow colors under the lights.

"_You gave a kick, I gave a slap – you smashed a plate over my head then I set fire to our bed."_

Somewhere off stage, a base started up with a back-up guitar followed swiftly by an upbeat piano. This song seemed to be an instant crowd favorite as Cartman began to belt out the chorus, the audience keeping beat too by clapping along.

"_Your slaps don't stick, your kicks don't hit, so we remain the same."_

Cartman looks directly at my as he delivers this line, smirking slightly back at me.

_"Love sticks, sweat drips – Break the lock if it don't fit. A kick in the teeth if good for some…"_

His dark brown eyes seem almost to twinkle with mischief under that wig as he takes a deep breath between the beat, body swaying slightly in time. The more drunken patrons of the bar whoop and holler, whistling excitedly.

_"But a kiss with a fist is better than none!"_

The audience explodes with cheering and off-key sing-a-longs as people try and join Cartman as he continues with the song. I find myself even humming the tune as my foot taps underneath the table. Back and forth, the woman-Cartman jumps and jives across the stage, meanwhile singing loudly and proudly. His voice seems to breath life into the bar, bringing everyone alive once more and out of their stupor.

_"I broke your jaw once before, I spilled your blood upon the floor. You broke my leg in return, so let's sit back and watch the bed burn,_" he shrugs as if casually, putting on his own little act along with the song.

"_A kick in the teeth is good for some, but…a kiss with a fist is better than none._"

I can't help but feel that the song is directed at me slightly, especially since when anything violent was mentioned, Cartman would cast his devious look across the room over to me. Obviously, Cartman is anything but shy and doesn't seem to mind performing in front of me, so yet again I find myself wondering why it is that he is so desperate for me to keep this a secret.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining, but more often than not, the fat-ass has some sort of evil scheme behind all of it, even if he has to play the fool in some parts. It only makes me wonder what his angle is, what – if anything – he would gaining from this. But then again, maybe I'm just over estimating him.

The song draws to a close, leaving the bar buzzing with cheers and conversation. I gingerly pick up Cartman's drink before catering it over to him, smirking a little bit at his flushed face.

"You're good, fat-ass," I say over the ruckus, handing off the martini glass to his awaiting hand, "much better than what you used to sound like when we'd play Rockband."

Cartman smirks and, taking a sip of the hot pink liquid, opens his mouth to retort but then a few people make wolf whistles at the both of us so I duck my head, fleeing back to my own spot once more. I figure that conversation with Cartman could wait, and until the end of his shift, I should enjoy a few free glasses of whatever I damn well please and my own secret show.

. . . . .

My skull seems to vibrate. Yeah, I'm definitely a little more than buzzed at this point and nearing something more along the lines of tipsy. I don't when, or how, but I'd changed locales to one of the tables in the level right below the stage where a blurry Cartman-in-drag bounces back and forth.

One hour, two, maybe even three – I can't exactly keep track of time and songs seems to slur together. Only on my third martini and I'm already half way to drunk, so I decide suddenly to abandon my fourth full glass sitting in front of me. I'd tried to stir up conversation with the men around me, but they seem too hammered to even realize that they're even in a bar still.

Vaguely, I can hear the music begin to wind down, and then I'm aware of someone sitting beside me, pulling me up from the barstool by my upper arms. Wherever I'm being led, I don't bother to question, too dizzy and happy to really take anything too seriously.

That is of course until I'm confronted by a blast of freezing cold air which comes like a bucket of ice water to my face. I'm startled out of my giggling fit to see a woman supporting me but once again it dawns on me that it's really just Cartman and I'm really just a lightweight when it comes to holding my liquor.

The cold stirs me a little bit, making my world a tad clearer than it was for the past couple of hours. Outside, it's dark and everything is covered with a fresh layer of snow that crunches underfoot anytime I take a step. It has to be at least one o' clock in the morning, if not later, and I moan in agony to myself I realize how dead I'm going to be when I come back to my house. I can already hear my mom's boisterous and nasally shouts about how disappointed she is in me for sneaking out just to go get drunk.

"What's wrong, Jew? Forgot to take your birth control?" Cartman sneers, trying to coax me into an argument. I retract from him as if I'd been bitten, stumbling to stay on my own two feet. My labored breaths swirl before my face in thick clouds.

I'd almost forgotten about us still hating each other, as ridiculous as it sounds, but having that solid reminder keeps me from getting too close again.

"You're really in no position to talk." I pointedly eye the dress underneath his opened trench coat, to which his face reddens slightly.

"Whatever," he grumbles, "fuck you too, asshole."

We walk in silence, my boots crunching, his heels clacking. I'm suddenly thankful for having long legs because each wobbly stride I take keeps me in pace with Cartman who is significantly sober though tottering on an extra 3 inch sticks. I don't bother to question where we're going – I figure Cartman knew where the bus stop was at and that he wasn't about to pull me behind some dumpster to murder me.

This got me to thinking. Cartman and I hadn't been arguing as much as before, most of our fights lacking the usual venom. But yet some deeply ingrained part of me flinches at the thought of trusting the Nazi, undoubtedly due to all of the shit he'd put me through over the years. While he may not be the murderous sociopath we all grew to hate, he was still Cartman – the rude, insensitive asshole that I grew up with.

However, when I turn to say something to the fat-ass, I find myself staring into an empty space as if he's disappeared right into thin air. Briefly, I wonder how drunk one would have to be in order to lose a hundred and something pound guy in a dress. As I stare blankly at the stop where I was certain he-she-Cartman was standing a second, it was apparent that not very was the answer.

_Crash!_ The sound of metal grinding against stone fills the air, my ears stinging as the terrible screech persisted. I dizzily turn enough to see long shadows cast against the brick wall of an alley just a few feet behind me.

"Get off of me!"

Cartman's distinguished voice, him dropping the sickly sweet pitch he used all night at the bar and back to the cold dangerous sound that I had once been so accustomed to. My stomach clenches and suddenly, adrenaline floods my system, pushing out the intoxication as I dash toward the sound of his voice. Pounding in my ears, my own blood rushing is all I can hear for a terrible moment until I reach the alley, rounding the corner like a maniac.

The sight that greets me is beyond words.

There's Cartman, trench coat rumpled upon the soiled floor behind him, with his dress pushed up on his thighs and his wig entirely off his head. His mousy brown hair is sticking up at odd angles and below, his face is contorted into a look of sheer hatred. Endlessly deep brown eyes ablaze with a fury I'd only ever witness a few rare times when Cartman was truly consumed with rage. Even with that glare not directed at me, I still feel my insides churn anxiously.

"What the fuck?"

My attention shifts to Cartman's attacker, who sure enough is the creepy guy from the bus, his flop sweat gleaming under the orange light of the streetlamp. He seems uglier than before, lips pursed like a gaping fish and the rest of him akin to that of a walnut – dry and wrinkled. His own temper flares as a look of scorn crosses his face, mixed with disgust.

Time slows.

The man's body jerks forward, fist clenched tightly to strike – it's like watching a train wreck happen right before your eyes. I'm moving myself before I lose my nerve, my legs carrying me forward faster in hopes of reaching my target in time.

And then it's like someone hit the fast-forward button.

I slam into the opposing wall with pain exploding across the side of my face and spine, seeing white in my searing agony. Dazed, my legs give out as I slump against the wall, wrapping my arms tightly around myself. The world seems to spin, the ground rocking beneath me like a boat. I blink a few times in an attempt to clear my vision, at one finding a pair of dark brown eyes parallel to my own.

Cartman's crouched down before me, his wig hastily back upon his head and trench coat retied around his waist. Behind him, I could see the man in a similar position to me own though his nose was gushing crimson liquid down his shirt and his head was hung limp almost lifelessly.

"I beat the shit out of that asshole pervert," Cartman says to me proudly. Before I have a chance to respond, Cartman slips his hands underneath my arms and hefts me easily to my feet as if I weigh nothing.

"You know…," I trail off, leaning against my nemesis for support as he helped me back toward the bus stop, "I just took a punch for you even though you are technically my slave."

Smirking, Cartman replies softly, "Shut you dirty Jew mouth, Kyle."

. . . . .

I flop down upon Cartman's couch, my limbs splaying out in all directions as I'm glad to finally be off of the bus, out of that bar, and back to South Park. Inhale, exhale – the scent of Cartman's house fills my lungs like cheesy poofs and laundry detergent. The only light on illuminating his house if the street lamp just outside the living room window which casts its eerie light upon the floor in consecutive lines, split up from the blinds across the glass.

"Slave?"

Cartman looks up from his intent gaze upon the digital clock sitting on his fireplace across of me, bathed in the dull glow yet I can still see his unvoiced question in the bright depths of his stare within the smoky makeup still decorating his face. He blinks once, his eyelashes fluttering.

"Get me an icepack or something for my face," I gingerly brush my fingers across the sensitive bruise forming on my cheek just below my left eye. "I really don't want this to be too noticeable when we go back to school on Monday."

With a grunt of recognition, the drag-teen exits the room, leaving me to rest my aching head back against the supple cushions of his couch.

If it were possible, I'd think that my hangover was already beginning to form like a thick lump in the back of my conscious mind that with every beat of my heart would pound in my temples. Swiping my tongue back around my dried lips, I swallowed, my Adam's apple bobbing up and then back down.

Slowly, my mind began to drift back to Cartman. I wonder, why did he need that job? What was it that he needed that money for so badly? I already knew that a long time ago his mother Lianne began saving for him, so college was probably not it, so I could only really speculate. Perhaps he was planning something sinister again, and, knowing Cartman, that was entirely possible. I sigh to myself – I will never understand him.

Suddenly, something cold is being pressed against my wound, making me jolt forward slightly in surprise. My hand clamps around something warm while I pull myself back up into a sitting position, finding the old Cartman sitting in front of – no make up, no fake lashes, and just in a loose black t-shirt and an old pair of jeans. It's starkly different from the painted feminine face I was gradually becoming accustomed to.

I glanced down to see me gripping onto Cartman's wrist, who, in turn, was holding a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a thin kitchen towel. Steadily, I raised his arm back up again until the chilled make-shift icepack was replaced back upon my cheek. Satisfied with the calming coolness resting against my tender skin, I settled back into the sofa's cushions with a content sigh.

After seeming to realize my silent command of staying put, he makes himself comfortable beside me but puts enough distance between us to where we aren't touching.

"You shouldn't have done that, you know," his low voice interrupts my peaceful moment. "Take that punch, I mean. I can take care of myself, Jew-rat, and I don't need your scrawny ass trying to protect me."

I open one eye, glancing at him from out of my peripherals.

"I know that, fat-boy."

He looks stumped. "Then why did you…?"

"I plead momentary insanity."

We default to an awkward silence, him half-heartedly pressing the frozen vegetables against my face while I let my eyes drift back shut once more. The only sound that can be heard is our rhythmic breaths as they slowly fall into sync – harmony.

"Does it hurt?"

The cold icepack is traded for warm, deft fingers than roam fleetingly across my numbed cheek. In my fuzzy mind, I think of how odd it is that Cartman's touching me without the intent of harm and even weirder that I was letting him, not flinching back from our contact. But then the logical side of my brain, how ever dull or muted, helpfully supplies that I'd had one too many drink and my foe also had his own share of cocktails and martinis.

"Don't start acting all concerned on me now," I joke with a breathy chuckle.

"In your dreams, kike."

"Suck my balls, fat-ass."

"That an order, Jew-fag?"

"You wish."

We fall back into our normal banter but Cartman's still vaguely touching me, no longer just on my bruise but rather straying up under the hem of my trapper hat to free a few strands of hair. I'm warm and comfortable enough to the point where my eyelids droop and the world begins to fad in, and then back out of perception.

"You're falling asleep," he states simply.

"So?" I challenge softly, my lips feeling heavy and my tongue sluggish. With a muffled thump, Cartman tosses the bag of thawing peas onto the glass top of the coffee table.

The distant roar of tires across the gravel street could be heard as the headlights of the passing car slid across Cartman and me before disappearing into just an echo into the night. The world seems peaceful, unbelievably serene, as I feel my body giving in to my desire for sleep.

_Mmmm, sleep._ My mind practically moans at the very idea which sounds about like the best thing ever. Warmth is spreading up one side of me as I vaguely begin to tip sideways until lying flat, with each breath taking in the deep scent of Cartman and his house. Little spirals of color dance behind my eyes tauntingly as my eyelids fall firmly shut.

The last thing I'm aware of before slipping away into my dreams in a thick arm curling around my waist.

. . . . .

"Gah!"

My eyes fly open in time to see Cartman go crashing to the carpeted floor, his brown eyes wide and horrified, clothes rumpled and hair askew. Morning light spills in and brightens the room – it feels like I'd just closed my eyes only a moment ago before opening them again as if I'd just blinked for a long time. Oddly enough, I find myself feeling refreshed and less hung-over than ever before what with the amount of alcohol I'd consumed last night.

"What time is it?" I ask, sitting up and pushing my messy hair back out of my face as I glance absentmindedly around for my hat which must have at some point fallen off whilst I was sleeping.

Meanwhile, Cartman is looking blankly at me with his jaw open not unlike that of a fish before hefting himself back to his feet and shaking his head whilst mumbling under his breath. Every other word I catch, it's something about 'Jew-germs this' and 'Ginger-vitus' that, which in turn makes me roll my eyes.

Honestly, I can't believe I let myself crash on Eric T. Cartman's couch and even had the audacity to sleep with him practically spooning me. The thought brings an unpleasant wave of disgust over me, causing me to shudder involuntarily, and by the look Cartman's wearing; he's feeling about the same way. But yet again, we were pretty drunk and after all that happened last night, I guess it was excusable, but definitely not something I'd want to repeat.

When I glance at the clock, I find that it's only a little past nine. My stomach drops as soon as I'm reminded of my mother and father who by now must have realized my absence – I'm going to be in some deep shit. I can't contain the groan that passes through my lips as I warily stand up, cracking my back and neck.

I leave Cartman's house without much of a goodbye. Once I had gathered all of my shit, I just told the fat-ass that I'd see him Monday and waved him off, heading out the door. By the time I was finally going however, the asshole seemed back to his normal self, dropping the strangely awkward demeanor.

Sneaking back in through my window is out of the question I realize as I approach my house. Knowing my mother, she was probably going to yell at me, make a few more comparisons between Ike and myself, and then ground me for eternity. Hopefully she's not in too bad of a mood and won't be too upset that I snuck out. A man can hope.

I slip my key into the front door, unlocking it, and then slipped back inside almost noiselessly. I'm greeted with a strange silence which seems to be happening more and more often. Usually, after a family fight, my house is loud as my mom crashed around our kitchen, vainly looking for something to clean or cook.

"Son?"

My dad calls for me and I mentally curse his cat-like hearing, trudging over into the dimly lit dining room. It's déjà vu as I'm reminded suddenly of the fateful fight that my mother and I had which led of course to finding out Cartman's dirty little secret. How bitter sweet.

As expected, my dad is seated at the kitchen table, still dressed simply in his plain white pajamas while he sips at his steaming mug of coffee, the paper spread out before him. His eyes flick up to meet mine as he gestures simply for me to sit down, which of course I do obediently.

"Hey dad," I croak, my throat drying up.

"Kyle…," he sighs, staring intently at his hands wrapped white-knuckled around his cup, "I went in your room to check on you last night…"

"Dad-,"

He holds up hand to silence me before continuing.

"We both know where I'm going with this, son. You snuck out last night, and against my better judgment, I withheld this information from your mother. Now, I trust you, so whatever it is that you did, I believe that you were being responsible. However, I want you to go back to your room, do any homework you may have and finish your chores."

"You…you covered for me?" I ask dumbly. Dad nods slightly and opens his mouth as if he wants to say something but I'm up out of my chair before he can even form the words. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, pressing my face into his shoulder and smiling idiotically. "Love you, dad."

He pats my arm affectionately as he mumbles, "I love you too, Kyle."

. . . . .

My weekend passes quickly until I find myself staring blankly into my opened locker well after first period. As it turns out, my dad told my mom that I had a bad stomach ache, so my mom was relatively civil to me for the rest of Saturday and Sunday, plus I even got to hang out with Stan and Kenny for a bit.

All in all, I felt as though I'd come out of this whole situation with a major win.

"Dude, who fucked up your face?"

Craig Tucker leans casually against the metal siding of the lockers, his arms crossed as he examines the remainder of the bruise on my cheek. It's faded now but still a fairly darkened color, kind of like the color of pomegranate lemonade – sickly pinky purple. Unconsciously, my fingers sweep across the injury, though with this simple gesture, it brings about the fuzzy memory of Cartman and me on his couch along with a strangely giddy type of nausea.

"Leave the Jew alone, Fucker."

As if by my sheer thoughts alone summoning him, Cartman walks up behind me just as I slam the locker's door shut. Craig gives a shrug and flips him his middle finger before heading back off to class, mumbling something with the 'f' word colorfully spread into it. The halls begin to clear out as the warning bell rings, annoyingly reminding all students that we now have only one minute to get to class.

"Hey, fat-boy."

"Jew-rat," he greets evenly.

I make a move to bypass Cartman, deciding that I'd rather not get detention than talk to the Nazi asshole.

"_Kahl_."

As I turn, Cartman's suddenly right behind me staring up at me with those dark penetrating eyes that leave you breathless with fear. He's got this mischievous glint in them again which of course makes me feel sick slightly as I take a healthy step away from him.

He leans forward, tapping his fist gently against my jaw almost in a mock punch, the sound of our skin lightly slapping all I can hear.

"I'll catch you later, kike," he says almost nicely – almost. I watch, befuddled, as Cartman turns and walks away, leaving me to stare at his retreating form forlornly. Vaguely, overhead the late bell dings a few times, alerting me that I officially am late to second period but I couldn't care two shits less about a fucking tardy.

I don't think I'll ever understand Eric T. Cartman, not now, and probably not ever. Yet, as my fingers were now lingering upon the new place upon my face of interest, I couldn't help but feel the tiniest bit of hope prickling up in my chest that maybe, just maybe he and I could have a civil relationship. Just maybe.

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**Author's After-note thing: Please tell me someone gets that! Pleeeeeaaaase! It took me forever to come up with this so refer to the beginning of the chapter if Cartman's little action doesn't make any sense.**

**Review.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: So, this week was kind of hard to write, and honestly this a tad of a filler. I mean, really all I wanted to do was build up a bit more of tension, throw in a bit more the feelings but really just work on their overall friendship. I don't want to jump too fast from "I hate you" to "I love you & wanna jump your bones". I know many of you are starting to get impatient with this story and stuff, and trust me, I really appreciate all of the positive feedback. **

**Anywhosies, reviews are welcomed and frankly quite apprciated. They really get me through the drudgery of editing and rewriting and junk. Please enjoy this next chapter of Better Left Unsung. **

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Chapter 5: Don't Stop Me Now

In my high school career so far, I can safely say that I've never had a detention – that is of course, not until today. Personally, I blame the fat-ass, considering he is the reason that my stupidly strict chemistry teacher handed me a detention slip as soon as my converse breeched the doorway.

So, Cartman was the explanation of why I was currently sitting in the library with about fifteen other students of all different level of grades listening to some security guard telling about why we're here and how we should behave ourselves if we don't want a repeat of this 'incident'. I fucking hate security guards.

I sigh, folding my arms across my text book and resting my head down upon them. If that asshole wanted to talk the whole hour, then I could at least try and tune him out. Glancing back up at the clock, I realize I still have forty-five minutes. A groan escapes from my lips as I bury my face deeper into the crook of my arms. This is going to suck.

"Vvvvvvv," my phone vibrates against my thigh through my jean's pocket. Discreetly, I pull out my dinosaur flip-phone to see NEW MESSAGE flashing back at me. My eyes flick back up to the asshole up front before back down to my phone hidden under the desk as I open the text.

It's from a number I don't recognize, yet as I scroll downward, who it is becomes terribly apparent.

-_You owe me big time, Jew._

Obviously from Cartman, though the message leaves me confused, staring down blankly at my screen in hopes of figuring out what he meant.

"Can I help you, kid?"

Oh no.

Standing in the doorway of the library is none other than Cartman himself, looking oddly distraught, eyes wide and hair slightly mussed as if he'd been running.

"Oh sir, you wouldn't believe…," he trails off, eyes suddenly finding me. "Kyle! Thank god I found you!" Cartman rushes over to my side, yanking me up out of my desk by my wrist roughly as he snatched up my backpack and book with his other hand.

"What are you doing here?" I hiss back at him through clenched teeth. Cartman's grip tightens as he begins to lead me out to the door. All of teens turn their curious gazes back on us, watching incredulously as Cartman bails me out.

"Young man, I can't just let-,"

"Oh with the fire – everything just, whoosh! My god it was terrible!" Cartman babbles dramatically over the older man, pushing me out the exit hastily. "And then – oh the gas tank! Don't worry, Kyle. I know how hard this must be for you! Oh the explosion-!"

"Young man! Young man, you get back here this instant!"

"Run for it, Jew!"

Cartman takes off running while still holding onto me, forcing me to stumble after him as we sprint like mad away from the sound of security guard's rising voice. I force my legs into motion, half jogging, half being tugged along by Cartman, as we made our hasty retreat. Behind us, the school-cop is following, grunting and panting loudly between his enraged shouts for us to stop.

We round a corner in a blur, but before I can even take another step, I'm being lifted off of my feet, for a moment fearing that the security guard has caught me. A hand clamps down tightly over my mouth, effectively muffling my instinctual yelp of surprise.

Then I get a second to see where I am.

I'm standing between the slim space of two of the school's buildings, afternoon light lazily casting shadows at long angles. The hefty man thunders past, completely ignorant to my partner in crime and myself. Cartman's pressed up behind me, holding me still with his one arm and back in the dim darkness that we were concealed in. I press my back against his chest, feeling the warmth of our bodies gathering and seeping in even through my clothes.

Finally, Cartman's grip slackens as the sound of footsteps fades away into nothing more than a residual echo. I peek around the edge of the small alleyway to find nothing but a deserted hallway, the security guard probably still chasing around no one – the thought makes me smirk.

"He still there?" Cartman whispers behind me, his breath rolling off my neck. My heart pounds in my throat and ear, momentarily drowning everything out.

"No…I think we're good to go," I reply, taking the first hesitant step out in the hallway. Just a couple yards away is the quad and then outside of that is the school parking lot. "Hey, do you have a car or something?"

Cartman follows me out into the open, nodding back as he as he says, "Yeah, I borrowed the Cadillac from my mom, Jew."

That's all I need to know. I motion for Cartman to come with me as I sneak around one of the pillars, casting an uneasy glance around the rest of the open school halls. We crept out into the open, the school's gates just ahead – if we can clear those without getting caught, we might just make it out alive.

"Hey! Stop right there!"

_Well fuck._

Cartman and I make a break for it, sprinting away together with all we've got, and my backpack still in the Nazi's hand as it flaps wildly with every bound. I glance back to see the man jogging after us, veins bulging in side of his reddened neck and temple as if they might explode any second, his beer gut bouncing from within his uniform. Were I not in immediate danger of even more trouble, I might've bust up laughing right then and there.

My shoes pound against the asphalt as we reached the parking lot, arms pumping at my sides. Sure enough, parked in one of the back spaces is the gold Cadillac that I usually saw Ms. Cartman driving. We jump into the car, me flopping down into the passenger's seat while Cartman started the engine, the old car roaring to life.

"Drive, drive, drive!" I command loudly and smack my hands down on the dash board for emphasis.

He peels out, tires screeching against the blacktop and undoubtedly leaving behind long tire tracks in its wake. The old jukner tears out across the main road, tuning and swerving between two lanes as Cartman makes our get-away. For a long moment it's just the two of us and the road, panting heavily and raggedly.

Suddenly, a smile breaks across my face, so huge it practically hurts, but when I glance over at my enemy, he's wearing a matching one.

We burst out into laughter, Cartman gripping the steering wheel helplessly as tears gather at the edges of my eyes; all the while both of us try futilely to stop our maniacal giggling fit. I finally regain some control and suck in a big breath to ease my now burning lungs but still my goofy grin remains. Occasionally, the fat-ass spurts out a lasting chuckle, breathless and restrained.

"Oh my god," I sigh contentedly, leaning back in the plush leather seat as I marvel at our great victory. "I can't believe I just skipped my first time in detention."

"You're such a pussy," Cartman rolls his eyes but says the insult almost…dare I say fondly? Finding no retort, I just settle with tapping on his radio player – the sound of music instantly filling the open air. I recognize the tune instantaneously.

_"-ight, I'm going to have myself a real good time,"_ the speakers belt out none other than the great Freddie Mercury's voice with arguably one of the best Queen songs that was ever created. I can barely contain myself as I crank the volume up to ear-splitting proportion, all the while Cartman surveying me out of his peripherals.

"I love this song!" I shout over the blaring melody as I point idiotically at his radio player. At this point, I can't help it – I was freed from detention and escaped successfully – I join in on the next verse. _"And the world turning inside o~out and floating around in ecstasy!"_

"Oh Jesus, you sound like a dying llama. Please for the love of all things holy, shut your dirty Jew mouth, Kyle!"

_"Don't stop me now!"_ I sing back at him, especially off key, _"Don't stop me – I'm having a good time, having a good ti~ime!" _My voice breaks on the last part as I try and fail terribly to hit the high note, Cartman overdramatically plugging one ear and swerving slightly with his car. The fast and razor sharp sound of an electric guitar holds an interval between the lyrics.

"Come on, fat-ass, sing with me. That's an order!"

Sure enough, as the verse comes on, Cartman break out into song right along side me.

_"I'm a shooting star leaping through the sky like a tiger, defying the laws of gravity! I'm a racing car passing by like Lady Godiva – I'm gonna go go go, there's no stopping me! I'm burning through the night, yeah, two-hundred degrees that's why they call me Mr. Fahrenheit."_

We pull into our neighborhood and before I can assault Cartman further with my terrible singing voice, he stops his car in front of my address, the engine rumbling softly as it idles. For a brief moment, I stare back at the ominous look of my plain house, lost in a contemplation of whether or not I really ought to get out of the car or not. Mom would be pissed as per usual since I already was late coming home, and no doubt her anger was already starting to reach critical mass what with our lack of fighting. By walking back into my home, I was practically begging for another battle.

Cartman seems oblivious to my hesitation as he reaches all the way across me just to open my door for me, the sure sign of 'get the fuck out'.

"Alright Jew, I'm wasting gas, and I know how much burning money kills your people, so get your scrawny ginger ass out of my car," he jerks his thumb at me, but something still roots me to my spot.

My mouth starts to form the words, but I lose my voice, finding myself quite suddenly unable to speak. I wanted to say something – anything – but I couldn't find the right words. Cartman's glare turns questioning as he arches an eyebrow at me, still invading my personal space.

"I…um," I falter, gulping slightly as I back out of the car and trying not to stumble. Giving up on saying anything of importance, I slam the car door shut and tread across my lawn to reach my front door.

"Hey Jew!"

I stop about halfway across, turning on my heel which digs into the soft grass underfoot. Cartman had rolled down the window and was now practically leaning out of it, his dark brown eyes staring after me and searching me. We seem to share sentiments as Cartman's jaw works without sound, as if he's working out what to say as well.

"Yeah?" I call back at him with a breathless laugh following.

Suddenly, Cartman's face contorts into a look I'd never seen before until it dawns on me – Eric T. Cartman is smiling, truly genuinely smiling, but not just any smile, he looks almost fucking sheepish. His cheeks are flushed slightly, but this time he certainly isn't pissed, in fact he looks anything but.

"Uh, I don't know," he finally says, scratching at the back of his head as his eyes scrunch up. I swear to god his eyes brighten and he isn't seeing someone, namely me, suffering so this more than just a little surreal.

It takes all of my focus to keep my knees from collapsing out from underneath me.

"Heh, yeah well…," I trail off, rubbing at the back of my neck as my eyes scanned for anything else to look at. "Cartman?"

"Huh?"

"Uhm," I make the mistake of meeting his gaze, momentarily loosing focus until of course the fat-ass clears his throat awkwardly. His car is still idling, puffs of exhaust swirling up out of the tail pipe. I try to concentrate, "Thanks. About breaking me out of detention, I mean. For a total Nazi bastard…you aren't half bad."

Cartman's grin is abruptly replaced by his big smug, shit-eating smirk that makes me want to kick his ass anytime he dares to flash it at me. For a moment, I think he's going to pull away, and as he retreats back to his seat, I appear to be correct, until of course he pokes his head out the window one last time.

"And for a ginger-assed, cock-sucking son of a fat, kike bitch," he gets that devious twinkle of amusement in his chocolate eyes when an angry look blooms upon my features, but then he adds just a tiny bit softer, "you're pretty cool."

With that said, Cartman's gold Cadillac speeds off down the street, past his own house and rounding the next corner out of the neighborhood. All I can do is stand there dumbfounded, feeling heat rising up to my cheeks. Mumbling to myself, I cram my hands back into my pockets and head back toward my door in a few swift strides.

God, Cartman is such a fucking asshole.

But then again, my fervent heartbeat would beg to differ.

. . . . .

It seemed as though my life revolved around Friday nights. Essentially, I would wait out the week until Friday came, hang out with Cartman at that bar, and then spend of the rest of weekend recuperating from my hangover. A strange existence, but a satisfying one at that.

And this week was no exception.

So, how I found myself sitting back at my usual booth in the _Barbwire_ wasn't much of a surprise anymore.

Cartman's seated across from me, decked out as per usual in his mildly provocative get-up and feather boa with a new wig this time, one that falls in dark auburn layers to about the base of his neck. His eyes, fake lashes and everything, are done up to look especially dark, really making his amber irises pop. We'd come about twenty minutes early, the band still setting up behind the curtains.

"And then Kenny looks at me, holds up the condom, and says, 'I found your balloon'," Cartman drawls, his hilarious story making me chuckle.

"Cheers, fat-ass," I smirk, lifting up my scotch glass to clink with his pussy version of a martini. Collectively, we down our alcohol and already I can feel it working its way into my system as it burns down my throat. I shiver compulsively as I hold back the cough wanting to desperately escape past my lips.

"Hey! Miss Erica," the piano player man calls out to Cartman from the stage. "We're all set up now if you'd like to come and perform."

Arching an eyebrow, I say, "You probably should get going, _Miss Erica_. Wouldn't want to keep your adoring audience waiting, now would we?"

"Yeah, yeah, suck my balls and all that jazz," he waves me off, clacking off in his ridiculously high heels. I watch him walk away for a moment before finally mustering up my retort.

"While you're at it, _Miss Erica_, why don't you play some good music for once?" I grin widely as Cartman just flips me one of his perfectly manicured middle finger before climbing up onto the stage.

The lights dim and the patrons of the bar give a few encouraging whistles and shouts, busting out into full-on applause when in-drag Cartman steps out into the spotlight. He practically is shimmering with all of the body glitter and leather he has on. A soft piano's melody drifts out from the baby-grand placed strategically behind Cartman, traveling up the scale before hitting a few delicate chords.

"_Tonight, I'm going have myself a real good time, I feel ali~hi~hi~hive,_" Cartman draws out the last note, his voice filling the entire room with its timbre. "_So, don't stop me, Kahl."_

For a moment, I think I've misheard him, until of course his eyes land quite pointedly on me, dancing with a mischievous fire while still singing passionately. Suddenly, the piano picks up speed and an acoustic guitar joins in promptly.

"_I'm a rocket ship on my way to mars on a collision course – I'm out of control. I'm a sex machine ready to reload; I'm an atom bomb about to whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa explode!"_ He hits the high octave perfectly, throwing his arms up in the air while his eyes are squeezed shut tightly. The bar-goers send out a few more whistles.

"_I'm burning through the ni~ight, two-hundred degrees that's why they call me Miss Fahrenheit, I'm traveling at the speed of light. I'm gonna make a super sonic Jew out of you~!"_

Cartman shimmies across the stage, kicking his legs up slightly to the beat like one of those line dancers, his purple boa fluttering all around with every movement. I bring my index finger and thumb up to my lips, blowing hard to produce a loud whistle of support as the song draws to its close. The spotlight fades back out, leaving the rest of us to cheer and clap.

I dash up from my seat to go see Cartman in hopes of catching him between songs, taking the small stairs two at a time. Rounding the baby-grand piano, my eyes catch a swatch of purple feathers disappearing around one of the curtains in the backstage. I walk toward it quickly, until the sound of hushed voices reaches me from just beyond the curtain.

Light spills out across the wooden floor as I stare at my shoes in the dimness, trying to catch a word that's being said.

"…but I really think you're great, Erica, so uh, well I was wondering maybe if you'd like to go out for a coffee or something, maybe before a show?"

Oh my god. The piano man is asking Cartman out.

I feel like someone else is driving my body as I throw open the curtain, trying to look ignorant of the conversation taking place just beyond. Sure enough, Cartman's standing there under one of the backlights with that guy, who now that I get a better look at him, can't be much older than twenty or so. Both eyes turn to me, one looking frustrated and the other looking horrified. I plaster on my huge fake smile.

"Hey babe," leaves my mouth before I can stop it. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realize what a bad idea this is, really I do, and without that liquid courage I'd had just moment prior, then I probably wouldn't be doing this. I casually waltz over and drape my arm over Cartman's shoulders, suddenly glad for the fact that I'm slightly taller.

"Are you guys…," the piano dude trails off before shaking his head minutely. "Are you dating him?" He directs the question at Cartman, pointing a finger at me.

"Yeah, actually she is," I answer for my enemy, who I know is probably going to murder me once given the chance. "I'm Kyle, Erica's boyfriend. It's nice to meet you…Rudy?"

"Ruben," he corrects automatically. This Ruben guy is only an inch shorter than me, kind of doughy but not fat, and has the classic hipster look what with his ink black hair that just barely hangs in his face and thick rimmed glasses. I extend my hand out to him, which he hesitantly shakes. I clamp my fingers down tightly, firmly grasping his hand while he tries not to wince. _Pussy._

"Right, well anyway," I trail off, trying back away with Cartman who surprisingly isn't fighting me as much as I would've thought. I can't see his face to gauge how angry he is, but I'm praying he won't kick the shit out of me later for this. "I guess we'll just see you around…"

"Ruben," he finishes for me again.

"Right, right," I nod reassuringly, knowing full well how much of a dick I'm being but too far gone to care. "Well, I'll see you around. I don't want to interrupt the show, so I guess we can just head back to my place afterwards, babe."

Ruben's face seems to pale at the flirtatious tone my voice had taken on and I can practically feel Cartman stiffen in my arms as I lean closely into him. There was no way I was ever going to get away with this, but I go for it, the alcohol spurring me on.

Before 'Erica' can say anything, I press my lips up against his cheek in a quick chaste peck and dart away back to my seat.

I feel a little sick and I know that I've probably just incurred the very wrath of Eric Cartman, yet a victorious vibe resounds in my chest.

Staring down into my empty shot glass, I realize that tonight is going to be a very long night.

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**Author's After-thoughts: Okay so this chapter was pretty darn short, and also I realize that it wasn't up on Friday, so I'm super double sorry about that. I've been having some trouble with my personal life and it's just kind of muddling my ability to write. Anyway, I'm thankful for reviews, as always.**

**Thanks for reading :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: Alright, well I don't really have much to say about this chapter, other than the fact that we're nearing the climax of this story. I don't expect this story to go much more than 10 chapters or so, sorry. I suppose I could continue it longer, but I guess I'd have to consider it. Well, I hope you all enjoy this new chapter of Better Left Unsung.**

**Also, thanks for the lovely reviews, they keep me going even n my darkest moments of writer's block :)**

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. . . . .

Chapter 6: Heat of the Moment

. . . . .

Cartman practically kicks in the door, with me stumbling after him. His show had gone well, despite the dirty looks that Ruben had been giving me all night. I have to admit, it did cross my mind to just beat the shit out of him, but then again, it might've just been the alcohol.

However, the thing that had been bothering me was the very potent silence that Cartman had defaulted to during our entire trip home. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't looking forward to the fat-ass's bitching, but then again, the lack there of concerned me more because a) it wasn't like him and b) it meant that I was probably in more trouble that I realized.

The drag-queen kicks his shoes off and pulls his wig off, along with the feathery boa, letting the items flop down at the side of the staircase carelessly. All I can do is stand in the entry way and wait for him to say something.

"Kyle?"

My stomach drops.

"Y-yeah?" I barely am able to stutter out.

"I thought we were going your place, babe," he turns to look at me, dark eyes dancing with a sort of dark humor as he mimics my tone from earlier. I call the Nazi my girlfriend and he makes a joke about it? I'm lost as to how to reply, just shaking my head. He continues regardless, "I'm gonna go upstairs and change, so don't touch or steal any of my shit. You can just crash on my couch or something, Jew-boy."

Smartly, I decide not to question Cartman's sudden bout of generosity but rather just accept that God has taken this rare and wonderful moment to smile upon me. As my so-called enemy ascends the stairs, I stare after him idly and watch as he rounds the corner, disappearing down the hall to his room.

I'm left alone in the dimness of his house – it's déjà vu from the nights prior where I'd followed him home, the one night when I'd been punched standing out starkly in my memory. Something unfamiliar swelled in my gut when my thoughts dared to skim across the fat-ass, something like friendship? The title didn't sit well with me. Stan and I were friends, but whereas Cartman was concerned, he'd practically gotten himself his very own category.

Without anything else to occupy myself with or perhaps just unwilling to linger on my deeply disturbing thoughts, I wander off through the open arch leading into a living room just beyond. A large white bulky shape sits all alone in the corner, and as I approach, I can tell almost instantly that it's a piano. I tug the sheet off with a flourish, the linen flapping and billowing up as tiny shimmers of dust float lazily through the musty air.

At times, it seemed as though his whole house was just accumulating dust as if it were abandoned. My thoughts briefly touched on the illusive idea of where Mrs. Cartman was, but I dismissed the thought as I sat down on the dark wooden bench.

It was a beautiful instrument, with dark mahogany wood that reflected back the word in warm brown hues. Tentatively, I lifted the lid to reveal the row of white and black teeth that seemed to grin back at me, set within tanned lips. With excessive care, I place my fingertips down upon the cool smooth surface of the bone white keys, my knuckles brushing against the raised ebony counterparts.

"You just don't listen, do you?"

I nearly jump out of my skin from hearing Cartman's voice behind me. Hastily I get up from the bench and face my personal attacker who at this point is leaning against the opposing wall casually with his mousy hair mussed and in nothing more than a pair of ripped up jeans and a black t-shirt. He arches an eyebrow at me, that usual lazy curiosity glinting in his warm eyes.

"S-sorry," I manage to say. I gesture at the piano, "I didn't know you had one – can you play?"

"A bit," he shrugs.

"Play me something then," I reply, adding automatically, "that's an order."

Cartman gives an over dramatic sigh and launches into some whiny little rant about stubborn ass Jews, but none the less seats himself at the wooden bench, delicately setting his hands down upon the ivory piano keys. By pressing his fingers down, the unused ones curling back slightly, he produces a harmonious sound from the large instrument and looks rather satisfied before continuing.

He plays a few chords and then begins to sing.

"_It was the heat of the moment, telling me what my heart meant._"

His voice is soft and gentle, leaving me yet again taken aback by this strange new side of Cartman I was being exposed to. Once more, the new found feeling swells in my chest, tight and painful and wonderful in the oddest of ways. Perhaps I was led by curiosity, but I give in to the undefined emotion, letting it lead me cautiously over to Cartman.

I approach from behind and reach one arm out from around him to rest my hand down upon his own, feeling the tendons strain against his skin with every chord he plays. Flawlessly, Cartman begins to sing once more, moving on to the next verse as if unperturbed by my sudden proximity.

"_I never meant to be so bad to you, one thing that I swore I would never do_."

Hesitantly, I reach my arm to parallel its counterpart, thus pressing my chest lightly against Cartman's back. With every intake of breath he takes, the muscles stretch and expand against my own and his heart thumps with every beat contrary upon my own hammering pulse. Swiping my tongue across my mouth, I wet my dry lips nervously as I press against Cartman more and relishing this new contact.

_"One look from you and I would fall from grace, and that would wipe the smile right from my face,_" his voice quakes ever so slightly and then Cartman turns to look back at me, putting out faces only a few dire inches apart. "_I-it was the h-heat of the moment…t-telling me what my heart meant._"

He stutters, voice dropping down to nothing more than a whisper. The fat-ass stills, his short breaths halting altogether, and stays as such to the point when one might think that he'd up and turned to stone. My eyes trail down to his lips unconsciously. After we stay like this for quite sometime, Cartman's cheeks heat up, blooming great roses of red upon his features.

Suddenly, I want to kiss him.

The thought alone is enough to make me jerk back, breaking the very fragile spell over the both of us. I blink a few times and hard, trying not to physically shake my head to destroy the thoughts. We stare at one another rather unsurely, my heart hammering against my ribcage as if with the intent to break free.

Cartman's eyes mirror my own alarm back at me tenfold, his muscles going slack and jaw hanging open ever so slightly yet no sound was produced.

"…I'm going to go…sleep on the couch, I mean," I stumble over my words clumsily as I back out of the room. Cartman nods a couple of times and clears his throat, but seemingly after finding nothing to say to me, he nods and blinks some more. We probably both look like two people who'd just walked out of some terribly traumatic event, hell Cartman's probably in shock for all I know.

Numbly I fall onto the fat-ass's sofa, face first into the pillows. I'm too exhausted to even bother taking my coat or hat off, figuring it probably won't matter much when I finally pass out.

I shift onto my side and wrap my arms around myself tightly as my mind struggles to comprehend much of anything. _It must be the alcohol_, I tell myself, repeating it again and again like a mantra in my head. _It must be._

. . . . .

Sleep wouldn't come and I didn't have to wait long before the morning sun had risen up over the horizon. Cartman's face had tortured me just behind my eyelids for hours any time I dared to try and sleep, which basically ended with me staring up at his ceiling the rest of the night.

The clock hanging over Cartman's fireplace said clearly that it was five o' clock in the morning. Blinking heavily, I lift myself up from his too comfortable couch that seemed almost intent on swallowing me whole. Careful not to make a sound, I tiptoe over to his front door, pausing to let my hand rest on the knob. My skin tingles against the chilled metal.

"Leaving?"

My blood runs cold.

As I turn slowly, I see the one person in the whole world who I wish I could avoid. Standing at the top of the stairs, dressed only in a pair of sweats, is Cartman. His mousy hair sticks out at awkward angles and thick blue-black bags decorate the under side of his eyes. It was obvious that he'd gotten about as much sleep as I had: none.

"Um, yeah," I start awkwardly, "I have my insulin to take, you know and, uh, lots of homework to still be done. Last night was…fun." I offer up the adjective hesitantly. We share a knowing look that I pointedly decide to ignore.

"Guess I'll see you Monday then," he grunts, not moving from his spot and not looking like he's about to. The air grows thick with unspoken words and unasked questions. I want to say something, anything, that will make this okay.

"Later, fat-ass," the insult falls weakly from my lips – halfhearted and hapless.

He tips his head, "Jew."

Message received. We're to never speak of this incident again, and go back to pretending to hate each other.

_Pretend?_ My mind ponders over this concept as I pull the front door open and close it swiftly shut behind me. I hate Cartman, right? I shove my hands back into my coat pockets dejectedly. What a strangely eventful yet anticlimactic night.

Once again, like a terrible moment of déjà vu, I find myself standing upon my house's doorstep. As per usual, our door is unlocked because after all, who's going to rob someone from South Park? My house is peaceful while over head I can hear my mother's faint snoring and Ike's soft pacing footsteps above. On silent feet, I make the long trek up to my room, already feeling better from putting some form of distance between myself and that Nazi who takes to tormenting me, intentionally or not.

Nothing beats falling face-first into a downy comforter, I decide as I plop down on my bed tiredly. My back aches as my muscles stretch to curl up and in upon myself. Deftly my fingers unlace my boots which fall to my carpeted floor with muted thumps and next to follow is my jacket, then my hat. I strip of all of my clothes until I'm left in nothing more than my pair of boxers and burrow down deep into my sheets, inhaling the scent of home.

I let my mind go blank and my breaths stretch out into long sighs. If it were possible, I would spend the rest of my life in my bed, just sleeping and thinking about nothing in particular. Yet, as things seem to go for me, Cartman has to ruin it, his face worming its way to the fore front of my half-conscious mind. Distance, schmistance – no where is far enough away for me to be safe from that asshole.

I don't know how long I lay in bed, drifting in and out of partial sleep and it was hard to tell regardless, what with how tightly my blinds were drawn shut. Barely a drop of light managed to squeeze itself into my room, my fortress.

My eyelids grow heavy and blink once, twice, and then a third time.

. . . . .

"Kyle!"

"I'm up, I'm up!" I shout, bolting straight up in my bed. It seemed like only a moment ago, I'd decided I was just going to rest my eyes, but from the groggy feeling lingering in my limbs, it's easily been hours.

Sure enough, one hand on my shoulder as if still trying to wake me, is Stan, his deep blue eyes searching my face in the dimness. How'd he get in my room? I wonder absently.

"Dude, I've been calling you like crazy, and finally, I just decided that I would come over and see what was up, but your mom said that you came home early after a sleep over at _Eric_'_s_ house…?" Stan shakes his head before continuing, "She said you hadn't come out of your room since. Dude, I was worried, but I come in here just to find you sleeping. Weak, man."

Tiredly, I rub my palms across my face and then rake through my hair, my hands making one complete arc across my skull. I exhale slowly, slumping down as the air evacuates my lungs. My brain is muddled with confusing thoughts of Cartman, the lines of hate and attraction and friendship all steadily being crossed and blurred. Too many thoughts, I realize.

"…been weeks man," Stan rambles. Hell, I'm not even listening and I think he can tell. "But, you know, Craig's having a little get together tonight. You like Craig right? He's kind of an asshole sure, but for free booze, I'd say I can stomach him for an hour or two."

I glance up at my super best friend, frowning as I say, "And what time is it again?"

Stan returned the facial expression, "Almost nine, why?"

I squeeze my eyes shut and try not to focus too much on the aching pulse in the side of my head, both from the hangover and Cartman. Suddenly, I needed to get out of my own head; I needed a good, old fashioned distraction.

"Count me in."

. . . . .

Being drunk is a funny thing, really.

Stan and I had arrived at Craig's house, where Kenny and the rest of the guys, thankfully minus Cartman, were already waiting. We all took turns playing video games, one with hoards of man-eating zombies that would explode into gore with every bullet. I was the first one to crack open the alcohol, and coincidentally, also the one who drank the most.

I guess I'd never fully understood the concept of drinking your troubles away until this moment.

Clyde poured me yet another glass of straight tequila which I downed in one single gulp. The room spun and as I spoke, my own slurred voice sounded strange and detached.

"Dude!" Kenny drapes an arm over my shoulders, breathing hot fragrant puffs onto my face. "You are so hammered!" he sing-songs drunkenly.

Time skips and things become blurred. Vaguely, I see the shit-eating grin of Craig Tucker as he pushes yet another glass of a potent drink into my hands and then suddenly, I'm on the couch without my shirt. Where it had disappeared to doesn't even cross my mind.

The image of Token wearing my green trapper hat swims before my eyes before draining away into a flood of zombie guts and gunfire. More drink, because god, it seems as though my thirst is unquenchable. My throat burns and tingles with an electrifying pain that only heightens my beyond-tipsy state. This is quite possibly the most drunk I'd ever been.

Though, in a single moment of half-clarity, I think to look at the clock on my phone and read the digital numbers 3:08 AM glinting back at me.

"Shit," I groan, blinking heavily. I'm back on the couch, wearing a dress shirt that this time I don't recognize that isn't even buttoned up correctly. From the deep green hue, I would assume it was Tweek's, but for all intents and purposes, I have no clue, not that I know much in my state of mind anyway.

While my phone is out, my mind wanders to Cartman for the first time since arriving at Craig's. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know and am very painfully aware of what a terribly bad idea this is, but I can't stop my clumsy fingers from scrolling down to _his_ number and pressing the send button. I lift the receiver up to my ear and listen to the repetitive rings again and again.

"_Hello?_" Cartman answers his phone sounding very much so tired and annoyed _"Jew, do you know what fucking time it is? It's three in the god damn morning, so this better be really fucking good, or I swear I will murder you."_

"Hey now," I drawl with a giggle accenting the end of my sentence. "I need a ride home 'cause I'm really really really shit-faced right now, so get your fat Nazi ass over here, mmkay?"

_"Are you…are you drunk?" _he asks incredulously, sounding more alert. _"Where the fuck are you?"_

"Craig's, silly," I reply as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. Beside me, Kenny and Craig shout incoherent words at me to say to the fat-ass. I shush them overdramatically, pressing my fingers to my lips and pursing them to produce the long hiss of air.

Cartman begins to say something else, but I barely hear it.

"Anywho, you have to come get me, alright? It's…it's an order, fatty, or else you-you know what I mean," my sentences seem to lose their meaning, blurring together as the thoughts I'm desperately trying to convey get lost somewhere in the whirlwind of my conscious thought.

"_Jew, you are such a fucking tard."_

I retaliate with, "Guys, would you like to hear what the fat-ass does on his Friday nights?"

Instantly, Cartman's voice is right back in my ear, loud and piercing, "_Alright, alright, Kyle. Just walk outside of Craig's house, don't talk to anyone else, and I swear I'll be right outside, okay?"_

Reluctantly, I do as he says, meandering through Craig's house on unsteady legs until finally reaching the door, which admittedly, I have a problem with opening at first. Even when I do step out into the freezing Colorado air, my mind is steel reeling along with the rest of my body.

Without anything else to do, I slump down against the chilled sidewalk, still somber enough to avoid any of snow still clinging to the cement. My head drops down against my awaiting hands and I take deep breaths, as if the cold air could purge me, but to no avail.

Finally, when I feel as though I might just blow some chunks or simply pass out, a very familiar golden Cattilac pulls up right in front of me – so close I can see my own warped reflection staring back at me from the cold metal mirror. I watch a pair of thick snow shoes tromp over to me, but I don't bother to look up into those amber pools above. Gently, with a sort of care that I didn't even know he was capable of, Cartman sets me down in the passenger seat of his car before joining me in his own respective place at the driver.

"We need to stop meeting like this," I slur flirtatiously.

"Shut up," Cartman groans, "I'm supposed to be mad at you for nearly spilling my secret, you god damn Jew. I need to keep you away from the hard liquor for sometime, Christ Almighty."

If Cartman spoke any more than that, I wouldn't have know, considering I found myself dozing off gradually. Somehow, I know that I'm being carried and I hear the distinct sound of a car door slamming, but I don't bother to look. In a moment, I'm expecting to come crashing down into the old Cartmans' sofa, but when my skin makes contact with cool, soft linen, I force my eyes open.

I was sprawled rather unceremoniously across Cartman's bed with him standing over me, looking at me blankly. Deftly, I tugged the mystery shirt off and practically tore my belt from its loops. I figured that I could sleep in jeans for one night.

Suddenly, there's a slight dip in the bed as Cartman sits down on the edge opposite of me, his back all I can see. Briefly, he pauses before getting back up again and heading for his door. I can feel the same heaviness of unspoken words weigh in the air.

It was probably the alcohol that made me do it, but I called out to him.

"C-Cartman, wait. Why…why don't you just sleep in here?"

He hesitates at the door way, giving me an over-the-shoulder look as if to evaluate how drunk I really am and whether or not I'll remember any of it. God, somehow I hope that I won't.

"You're drunk," he points out.

"So?" I challenge, lifting my chin proudly.

The very fragile silence takes over once more, neither one of us daring to breathe. Just when I think that maybe he'll agree, Cartman disappears out the door, leaving me in his room alone, feeling sick and just exhausted from all of this.

As I begin to doze off, I vaguely hear a creak in the bedsprings as a warmth joins me on one side, intertwining and entangling themselves with me. The last thing I hear is the soft hum of _It was the Heat of the Moment._

_

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**Author's After-note: Okay, I was really tired, so please excuse any gramatical errors. I worked hard to have this out on Friday and I'm pleased to say that I finally finished this chapter. Please keep an eye out for the next one, which should be coming up soon.**

**Reviews are much loved.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: Alrighty, so I know it's been a good long while since I've updated this story and I do apologize for that, but I'm also hoping that the wait has been enough to get more of you to review ;) Just kidders (well only slightly) anyway, moving on. So, this story has gotten a surpring amount of attention and for a long time, I meant for this only to be like five chapters long and just a fun short little fic, but as I've thought more about plot, I've actually been able to develop a lot more, so hopefully I can keep this going for a good long while. Or at least we can hope.**

**Well, you know the drill people! Read and review and please, enjoy this next chapter of Better Left Unsung.**

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Chapter 7: You've Left Me Speechless

When my eyes finally open to the morning light spilling in, I'm expecting to see Cartman lying asleep next to me, though I as I prop myself up on my elbows, I'm alone. I frown – I was so sure that he'd come back in here last night.

My head aches and pounds, but a hangover is something I'm steadily growing accustomed to, though it hurts none the less. I flop back down against the pillows, for a strange reason feeling quite lonely. I roll onto my stomach and sigh as I begin to ponder, _how do I feel about Cartman?_

I have no answer to my own questions.

With a frustrated groan, I bury my face into his pillow, inhaling deeply his scent that seems to cling to every part of this house. I remembered last night fairly clearly. Cartman had come and gotten my drunken ass from Craig's house, with me practically falling all over him. Unconsciously, I can feel my cheeks heating up. I remember him being mad about me almost spilling his secret but then I began to doze off. My brain makes the hesitant connection that Cartman had carried me inside his house and to his bed, where I then proceeded to offer him sleeping with me, which at first it seemed like he declined, but then I was so certain that he'd come back in here.

I splay my arms out, burying my face deeper into the soft abyss, when suddenly it hits me.

My arm is lying across a warm space on the sheets, and not on one of the places I'd been sleeping. Turning my head to face it, the other side of the queen bed is definitely still warm from someone who'd been sleeping beside me just prior.

Perhaps it hadn't been my imagination after all.

. . . . .

Sneaking out of Cartman's house hadn't been hard and honestly, I think he just let me go. With all the confusion floating around between us, it was best to get as far away from each other as possible. However, those newfound thoughts and feelings haunted every waking moment, each accompanied by Cartman's face at some point or another.

The week seemed to fly by, me blatantly dodging around the fat ass and him doing the same. I know he's mad at me and that we probably have more than a few things to discuss, but it was obvious how we were both putting it off. Had Stan not been so preoccupied with Wendy and Kenny with miscellaneous chicks, perhaps they would have noticed the drastic change in their two friends.

When Friday night finally arrived, I didn't know what was going to happen, but I did know how much stress I'd been carrying recently, as if the ache in my shoulders hadn't yet alerted me.

With bleary eyes, I glance over at the digital clock resting on my night stand – it's only eight at night and I'm already exhausted and sick of calculus homework. Annoyingly, my mind flits over to Cartman, wondering if he'd left for _Barbwire_ yet, and if he had, what song would he be performing first? Would that Ruben douche be chatting him up? Unsurprisingly, these thoughts only made me tenser.

Groaning, I abandoned my homework to seek refuge in the shower, perhaps in hopes of getting away from all of the stress and confusion.

On my way to the bathroom across the hall, I tug my shirt off, followed quickly by my pants, and, once the door behind me was closed, my loose-fitting black boxers. I wait patiently for the jet of water from my showerhead to heat up, resting my defined hips against the granite counter top and drumming my fingers absently behind me.

What was I going to do about all of this? I mean, it wasn't like I could just ask Cartman to go back to hating me…well actually I probably could, but still the true question remained, did I really want him to?

Steam gathering upon the mirror alerted me that the water had warmed up enough, so without anymore delay I hop in, closing the glass door. Warm rivulets conform to the contours of my frame, following the small paths of my lean muscle gained from many years of basketball. It was almost sensual, the way it ran down my sides and coursed across my abdomen. I let a shuddering sigh rack my body, feeling all of the weight momentarily disappear.

I place a hand upon the cool tile of the shower, stark against the heat swirling all around me. Water pours through the ringlets of my hair and drips down past my nose before falling down to my feet. Almost instantly, my mind flicks to Cartman and our near-kiss experiences. Despite the warmth, I shiver and feel a rush of blood to…erm, my nether regions.

Images swim in front of my mind's eye – Cartman smirking at me, Cartman laughing, Cartman smiling, Cartman blushing, Cartman kissing – no! My mind screeches to an abrupt halt as I squelch every last thought concerning that idiot fatass. With a jerky movement, I turn the water handle to the colder side of things, cringing as the now-cooled water floods over me yet it brings back my clarity and my sanity.

With a sense of finality, I shampoo my hair hastily and wash the rest of myself, careful to dodge my groin, and then, after rinsing off, step out onto the bath mat, feeling albeit refreshed yet even more muddled than before. Hap hazardously, I sling my towel around my hips, gather up my dirtied clothes, and then trek back to my room. I carelessly throw on a low-riding pair of jeans that show off my muscled waist and ribs nicely before tossing on an old and grayed South Park High sweatshirt over top of that.

Yet, as I towel off my soaked hair, I hear it, the sound that makes my blood run cold.

Eric Cartman's voice.

"…wondering if Kahl's here?" I listen to him drawl in that falsely polite tone of his.

"…well, he just got in the shower…" I hear my mom vaguely say from downstairs, though I don't hear the rest of her sentence. Faintly, I hear Cartman reply and then the sound of our front door shutting telling me he's left. But what in the hell was he doing at my house? Oh god, he wasn't in drag was he? My mind is reeling.

However, as if by impulse, I bolt out of my room and bound down the stairs in hopes of maybe catching him. Whatever reason it was that Cartman so badly needed to talk to me that he would come all the way to my very Jewish house, well then it must've been important.

"Bubula, you had a friend at the door," my mother calls out to me as I fly down the steps. I don't even bother to respond as I barrel out the front door, immediately assaulted by a blast of chilled air.

Sure enough, there was Cartman, already on the other side of the street and washed out by the lamp light from overhead. He looked so normal in his jeans and usual red jacket, so god damn normal. I jog across the road until my bare feet touch down upon the smoother concrete surface of the sidewalk.

"Hey," I pant. I probably looked insane, what with my damp Jew-fro still clinging to my forehead and no shoes on, plus I was flushed from the chilled Colorado air (certainly having nothing to do with the Nazi in front of me). Cartman arches a dark brow at me as he gives me a quick once over.

"You should have at least put some shoes on," he observes seriously. My stomach dropped at his grim voice, but I try to push the premonition aside.

"Yeah, well fuck shoes," I shrug, "but, uh…why were you at my house? Er, what's up?"

He pauses as if contemplating before answering me with, "I wanted to talk to you."

"Uh…" I blink owlishly back at him, "about what?"

"You know what," he sneers, finally showing me the annoyance bubbling deep down in those amber eyes. "We can't have this deal if I have to constantly worry that you _might_ get drunk off your ass and just _happen_ to spill my secret. I guess I'll just have to chaperone you to every event to make sure people keep the hard stuff away from you."

Cartman was joking, but only slightly, yet his condescending tone managed already to tick me off.

"Okay, that was one time, and I didn't tell anyone-,"

"Yeah but you were damn close," the Nazi argues, shaking his head.

I cross my arms, staring evenly at the larger teen before me, as I snap, "Don't be such a dick Cartman and you know, it's not my fault that you like going out in drag. If this situation was reversed, you'd be having me do way worse things and you would end telling everyone anyway. You ought to be glad that I'm showing you mercy, even though you don't deserve it."

Cartman's eyes narrow dangerously back at me. Of all the times he and I had ever fought, this was probably one of the more serious times. I could feel that faintly glimmering hope of friendship between us begin to die as we glowered back at one another. It was almost amazing how our conversations turn venomous in seconds.

I sigh loudly. This was not how I wanted this conversation to go and I felt almost…disappointed at our interaction. For reason, I was sure that he and I were getting along better, but all of our progress was dying right in front of me.

"Cartman, that's not what I-,"

"Fuck you, Jew-boy," he hisses furiously back at me. I swear, for a moment a hurt look crosses his features, as if he was thinking the same thing as me, no matter how brief. With that said, he turns on his heel and starts to storm off down the sidewalk.

"Cartman!"

He keeps walking, as if intent on disappearing into the night.

I want to call him back, say anything to make this situation better, anything to keep him from walking out. Panic bubbles up in my chest as I mentally grasp at straws for what to do. Desperately, I search but oh god, what I could I even do? Words find their way to my lips, spilling out like word-vomit before I can stop it, panic spurring them on and throwing my brain into over drive. I blurt out the first coherent sentence that my mind latches on to.

"Kiss me!" I shout at his back. All rational thought seems to halt as said Nazi stops mid-stride, casting me an intense look from over his shoulder.

"What?" Cartman obviously heard me, but with the look that he's giving me, it's obvious that he's waiting for something.

"Y-you heard me," I manage to stutter, "that's an order."

For one fleeting second, I'm sure that he's going to laugh at me or maybe just beat the holy hell out of me, until of course he takes that first step toward me.

With his long fluid strides, Cartman crosses the gap between us as his hands reach out as if to secure his hold on me, one clutching my shoulder, the other my waist. Cartman crushes his lips up against my own, kissing my nonresponsive mouth harshly. Somewhere inside me stirs as I give in to the desires, roaring to life as I push back against my nemesis, kissing him roughly for all I'm worth. Deftly, I reach up grasping onto the back of his neck and claiming fistfuls of his hair only to press myself against him tighter, increasing the pressure between us until it _ached_.

Cartman's large warm hands venture up under my hoodie, the friction between his calloused palms and my torso enough to force out an unwonted moan that's quickly stifled by his own lips. I feel my back being pressed up against the lamp post as Cartman steadies me with his knee between my legs. I break away from our kiss panting heavily and, being a tad taller, crane down to hungrily bite and nip at my enemy's exposed neck.

As if having enough of my taunting tongue, Cartman snatches me back up and grips my jaw firmly in both hands before reconnecting our lips, stealing the very breath from my lungs. We break for air once more and my eyes lock with Cartman's. I'd never seen such a smoldering yet utterly confused gaze from him before, never one filled with so much passion and want but marred by disgust and horror.

And then the spell is broken as reality comes crashing back down.

Cartman takes a step backwards, his finger tips lingering against my skin for a second longer before his arms fall limply to his sides. His lips are red and bruised from my assault on them, though there's no doubt that mine are in any better condition. And, as soon as it had begun, our little moment is over as Cartman turns on his heel and storms off towards his house.

With a long sigh, I lean back up against the metal pole, reclining my head as I stare helplessly up at the twinkling stars over head, each seeming to wink at me. Suddenly, I think that maybe I would have preferred the beating instead.

. . . . .

It's déjà vu. I wonder how many times I'll have to go through this cycle as Stan and I walk to lunch together on Monday. If I thought that Cartman had been on my mind a lot before, well then I was going insane by the end of the weekend. Left in my room to myself for two days, I had nothing better to do than think about him, and anytime I tried not to, his face would pop along with…the incident, which would replay over and over in my head as if looped.

All of these thoughts left me disgusted, shaky and more turned on than I'd been in a long time.

I glance over at Stan as he and I maneuver through the hallway. He was a good distraction from all of the chaos inside my brain – I almost looked forward to hearing him blabbering incessantly about Wendy just so I could really focus on what he was saying and not the incident that was stuck on repeat in my mind.

"And then she told me that Bebe told her…" Stan just continues to ramble – it was funny sometimes how alike he and Wendy seemed. My super best friend pushes the cafeteria door open for me and we step inside, making a beeline for our usual table with all the guys.

Yet, as I momentarily turn away from watching Stan's profile, my eyes land right on the last person I'd ever wanted to see. The guys around him were laughing, making some sort of joke obviously at the fat ass's expense, and while his face was twisted into a dark scowl, the anger hadn't reached his eyes. Was I the only one who could see how faked Cartman's attitude was? Underneath that mask, his eyes were blank, emotionless and devoid of all things Cartman.

My heart hammered in my chest as those amber eyes locked straight onto me, as if he just knew I was watching him. I swallowed the lump forming in the back of my throat.

"Come on, dude, quit going all space-cadet on me," Stan tugs at my arm, momentarily allowing me to tear myself away from the Nazi's heated gaze, "pull up a chair and take a load off. So what's up guys?"

Kenny starts chatting excitedly about some party coming up again this Friday and I can't help but spare one tiny glace over at Cartman, who happened to be staring right back at me. All around us, the guys keep talking about something seemingly unimportant until a certain phrase catches my attention.

"…check it out, the lard ass has a hickey!" Craig pointed out to me and Stan, gesturing to Cartman, who sure enough, had a few decent sized red marks down the side of his neck, only a few visible over his black t-shirt. My face heats up as I realize just who gave him those so-called 'love bites' and Cartman shoots me yet another ominous look.

The table erupts in laughter as each of the guys make total assholes out themselves ripping on him and cracking jokes. Again my nemesis plasters on his forced sneer as he makes a few comebacks, but even I have to admit that they were weak – no doubt his heart just wasn't in it.

And all the while, I sit here and stew, feeling like I might just be losing my mind after all.

"It looks like there's…," Token trails off as he leans across Clyde to get a better look at their victim, as if counting how many hickies he was carrying, "…well, I'd say about four."

"No way, totally five. I mean, look at that one right there,"Clyde negates, shaking his head. They all try to keep straight faces while going back and forth on how many Cartman has, Kenny at last bursting out into a fit of laughter so hard he fell off of the bench seat.

"There's a lot more than five," I blurt out, absently picking at my fingernail. _Oh shit, I didn't just…aw fuck_. Suddenly, all eyes are on me as the table falls quiet. I look anywhere but Cartman as no doubt my face starts to heat up once more.

"And how do you know that?" Craig challenges.

"Uh…," I shoot once glance at Cartman who looks genuinely curios as to how I plan on getting myself out of this mess. "Me and the fat-ass went to a party up in North Park last Friday, and uh…you know."

I prayed everyone would believe my little lie.

"Whoa, and the both of you scored with some chicks? Damn,"Clyde whistled appreciatively.

"Yeah, I'm surprised you're not being arrested for murder, Cartman," Kenny comments, his eyes sparkling deviously as he delivers his punch line perfectly, "I would've thought for sure you'd crushed your girl."

Everyone howls with laughter, all but Cartman who is now genuinely starting to get pissed. As I rest my head back down on my arms, I catch Stan's curious look. There'd probably be some explaining I'd have to do later.

. . . . .

Somehow, me and Stan's little chat ends with me agreeing to go on a double date with him, Wendy and one of her girlfriends. Basically, he was concerned about me spending so much time with Cartman and maybe he was just a little jealous, I don't know.

But the week seemed to drag by. I tried hanging out with Stan more, playing video games with him after school and even having our rare school-night sleepovers, but none of it purged my mind of thoughts of Cartman. It seemed like he was haunting me, running me ragged what with all of the sleepless nights spent agonizing over just what the fuck was going on between us. I hated Cartman, or at least I should, but when I came right down to it, I didn't. Yet the thought of being with him made me queasy.

As per usual, my life was turning into a living hell and all because of Eric fucking Cartman.

With a grunt, I folded the collar of my dress shirt back down to its normal position – I didn't want to look I was from the eighties. It's Friday night and I'm getting ready for a date with a _girl_ when me and my very _male_ friend/enemy had shared an intense kiss just a week ago. Indeed, the irony was not wasted on me.

I gave myself a quick once over in the mirror. With a pair of dark jeans, a black under shirt and a dark green dress shirt the color of my eyes hanging over that, I didn't look half bad. Even my usually unruly curls seemed to comply tonight. I almost looked rugged what with not having shaved in a few days, the shadow of stubble lightly decorating the underside of my chin and outlining my jaw. I looked…handsome.

Dad was letting me borrow the car for my 'blind date' and was more excited for his whole thing than I was. Mom and I were never on good terms, but even she seemed a little happy that I finally seemed to take some interest in someone of the opposite sex. I'm sure they're hoping that I marry this girl and have little Jewish babies with her – or at least that's what Ike and I joke about.

"Here son," my dad says to me, holding out his car keys to me as I reached the bottom of the staircase. My father handed them to me as if he was passing on some sort of gauntlet but I guess that's just my dad for you.

Stan told me that he would be picking up Wendy and her friend, saying something about those two wanting to get ready together and that he would just meet me at the small Italian restaurant. All I had in the way of direction were the messy scrawlings of Stan and an address on a small sticky note. I follow the instructions until I'm led to a very familiar street, nearly in the next town.

And then, there it is.

I can't help but slow a bit when the oh-so familiar blue neon sign comes into view. _Barbwire_ looks even more inviting in the dark night, and I can't help but feel the unusual prickle of morbid curiosity in the back of my mind. _Maybe just one stop wouldn't hurt, and if Cartman isn't even there or out on stage, I can just leave_, I reason slowly. _Yeah, I mean, I am early anyway, and I don't want to seem too anxious for this blind date. It's always better to be fashionably late anyway, right?_

This is enough for me to pull over adjacent to the snow-laced sidewalk and clamber out of the car. I stare at the red leather doors, debating whether or not I should cross that threshold. It was nearly an hour before Cartman and I usually showed up, so it was doubtful that he was even there, and I'd look like a total dumbass if I walk in and hardly anyone's there.

Mustering up all of the courage I have, I open the doors to the bar.

As always, I'm greeting with smell of smoke and liquor but there's a significant lack of noise, the pub quieter than I'd ever heard it before. There was practically no one, except for the bartender who was wiping off the counter in the back, but as I dare to glance up at the stage, I see him.

Cartman had moved the piano out to the center of the stage and was seated at it, decked out in his usual drag-esque attire. He was wearing the brown wig with the pretty ringlets that hung down to his shoulders and an outfit I'd never seen before. It seemed more cloth than leather with petite black ruffles that came in a sharp V down his chest and a swishing skirt that nearly reached the floor. It would almost be considered a conservative evening gown if not for the giant slit up his left thigh, exposing a white lacey garter, and the sexy black stilettos peeking out from underneath.

"_I can't believe how you looked at me with those James Dean glossy eyes in your tight jeans and your long hair and your cigarette stained lies_," Cartman sings out in a lamenting voice. He plays a few more chords and keys before singing the next line, "_Could we fix you if you broke? And is your punch line just a joke?"_

I'd never seen Cartman look so…sad. His fingers dance across the black and white keys of the baby grand and I can't help but feel drawn in, allowing myself to take a few hesitant steps closer.

"_I'll never talk again, oh boy you've left me speechless, you left me speechless, so speechless," _he holds the note out, frowning slightly to himself but continuing on with the song regardless. "_And I'll never love again, oh boy you've left me speechless, so speechless."_

I can't help but feel that the song is directed at me, and the last verse makes my heart sick. Cartman stares up at the ceiling of bar, as if lost in his own world. With a feeling of finality, Cartman sings one last line, his hands falling back into his lap haplessly.

"_And after all the drinks and bars that we've been through, would you give it all up? Could I give it all up for you?"_

Suddenly, Cartman glanced over, instantly spotting me. Uncertainly, I clapped softly, the sound filling the place and echoing all around us. His eyes grow wide and his whole body seems to stiffen in surprise while his jaw works to get some sound out. I continue to approach until I'm right in front of the stage, stopping as I let myself fall into a leisurely pose, my hands resting partially in the pockets of my jeans.

"Hey," I murmur, "you look…good."

Those eyes suddenly turn apprehensive as Cartman examines me with searching eyes before replying with, "What do you want, Kyle?"

"I just…," I sigh, running a hand across my jaw pensively. "I think I might be going insane Cartman because for the last couple of days, you've been on my mind, constantly. I have no idea where this is all going but…," I hesitated, struggling for words but finally forced them out, "I'd like to find out."

He stares at me with such intensity; I can't help but shudder when it brings back the memory of our kiss. It seemed like he was really concentrating on what'd I'd said, what I was offering him just now. I personally am shocked that I was able to finally articulate just how I feel.

_Thwack!_

Cartman abruptly slams the lid down on the grand piano's keys and looks down at his hands harshly.

"Kyle…I-,"

"Hey there you two," Ruben seems to just morph out from behind the curtains, carrying a small vase of deep scarlet roses. He brings the flowers right over, setting them down on the instrument as he explains, "I brought you some flowers, Erica – I thought they'd just, oh you know, give this place that little touch of you. I'm not interrupting anything am I?"

"Yes."

"No."

I shoot Cartman a look that he blatantly ignores, turning his full attention to that hipster asswipe and batting those thick and fake lashes back at him. They start to chat idly about some mundane things having to do with music and whatnot. Impatiently, I watch Cartman converse with the other man, already feeling jealousy burning its way up my throat.

"Goodbye, _Erica_," I turn on my heel and begin to storm away, feeling a flood of emotions that all seemed to center around a new bitterness growing within me.

Tears begin to sting my eyes but angrily, I swipe at them with the back of my hand until I find my car through my own blurry haze. _Fuck this_, I fume, furiously shoving my keys into the ignition, _I need to just get away from the bullshit and forget. Forget all of this, and forget Cartman._

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**Author's After-Thoughts: Well, you've been demanding it, so voila! Kyman action! Things are starting to heat up between those two, but what will happen next? Stay tuned for next time's chapter of Better Left Unsung!**

**Haha alright, now on a tad more serious note, I really liked writing this chapter and honestly I'm very proud of it. I hope you guys review :) Until next time.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: Alright, so I'm still alive. Yup, I know it's been like forever since I updated, but I've sort of been losing motivation for this story unfortunately, and plus I've been super busy lately. All I ask is that if my updates are slower, then please review so I can get some more motivation and inspiration to write. Frankly it's a little disheartening to have people favorite my story or just add it to their alerts but don't just take the small amount of time to just tell me what they think or what they would like to see. But beyond that, within the next three weeks or so, I'll be free once more so hopefully updates will go back to being once a week or so. We'll see.**

**I hope you enjoy this next chapter ^_^ please read and review.**

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Chapter 8: Easier Said Than Done

Some things in life are easier said than done, such as getting a tattoo or forgetting you and your arch-enemy kissed or finishing a school project early. So, even when I am well onto my third Manhattan, and have already had two Apple-tinis prior, over at Token's party, the thoughts of Cartman's lips on my own still lingered.

I stare dejectedly back into my half empty glass, looking at my undulating reflection. All around me, bodies were wriggling and dancing, only a few people retiring to the couches pushed against the wall like myself. My buzz was definitely making my thoughts a bit …blurrier, but still I could feel the residual frustration at Cartman, but moreover at my own naïveté. In what world could I ever hope to have a _relationship_ with arguably the worst human being on the planet, for crying out loud he worships Hitler, and yet…my mind liked to play with the possibilities, much to my unbridled disgust.

"You know, if you keep staring at your glass like that, someone might just come along and do this," suddenly a pair of long elegant fingers swipe my cherry floating atop the ice in the sea of liquor. I follow the cherry up to a pair of pouty red lips, still shimmering with lip-gloss. "You must be _Kyle_, right?"

That same manicured hand is being extended toward me as if she wanted me to shake it, but then finally it clicks with me that she already knew who I was. For the first time, I get a good look at his mystery chick who decided I was worth a chance. Long black hair, thin waist, big boobs, olive skin and a strikingly beautiful face. _Very un-Cartman-like_, I note silently. I decide that I already like her.

"Yeah I am," I say slowly, getting my jaw to work once more, "but I can't say I've met you before…?"

"Nikki, and I'm the blind date that you blew off tonight to come over here and get hammered," she replies curtly. I already feel my eyes wandering down to her chest, deftly wondering if those D's were as soft as they looked. "I'd seen you around school before, and I actually thought you pretty cute, hence getting Wendy to set me up."

I chuckled to myself softly, dragging my gaze back up to her eyes, "Thought?"

"Think," Nikki corrected herself with a dark smirk that suddenly reminded me of – no, of absolutely no one. "You even look pretty sexy when you're half-drunk, especially with those roaming eyes of yours."

I make a big show of staring directly at her breasts as she said this before mockingly staring back up at her confusedly as I say, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Alright smart guy, well I'm going to go dance, and you're very welcome to follow, considering I did just admit to being attracted to you, or you can be a pussy and stay here and drink your little sissy drink – your choice," she arches an eyebrow back at me before getting to her feet. She's wearing a tight black shirt and shorts that accentuated her curved hips, looking very much at-home in the party scene. I hesitate.

The small and much muted rational part of my mind was screaming at me to just let her pass, let her go dance by herself and stay out of this, but then my heart remembered painfully Cartman and the look of intensity when I showed up at Barbwire. And quickly following was the bitter hurt that had been stinging me since I'd left.

"Nikki," my mouth suddenly felt dry, "wait up."

The last thing I remember coherently is her petite hand grasping onto mine tightly, the rest of the night blurring off into a swarm of dancing bodies and a throbbing beat, a pulse that never seemed to stop. If the taste of alcohol wasn't occupying my mouth, then Nikki's tongue, hot and persistent, most certainly was. She was all over me, or was I all over her? My hands explored endlessly smooth and supple skin, tucked away over that thin v-neck she was wearing.

In the moments where we weren't drunkenly dancing, we were taking shots of tequila, sharing hilariously slurred stories about one another and being more honest than any sober person could possibly bear. Her face swam in front of mine once again before she invaded my mouth, pressing her tongue roughly up against my cheek, eliciting a ragged groan from me.

As morning descended upon the party, I vaguely realized that not only I shouldn't be driving back home, but simply that I _couldn't_. But then I feel Nikki's hand holding mine again, dragging me off to some unknown destination, my feet scuffing along helplessly. My head lolls to one side and then the black tunnel collapses in around my vision as I am swallowed up by the jaws of unconsciousness.

. . . . .

The first thing that greets me when I come to is a splitting headache, accompanied by a blinding light that's spilling in through pale blue curtains. Groggily, I wonder how Cartman had carried me home this time, when suddenly, it hits me.

I roll over and sure enough, a tanned arm – definitely too thin to be Cartman's – is slung across my bare chest. Swallowing back all of my fears, I trace that arm back to its owner, nothing more than a tangled mess of black hair. _Definitely not Cartman._ The arm retracts across me and pushes the mane back to reveal that same striking beautiful face that had been haunting my dreams, or were they actually dreams?

"Hey Sleeping Beauty," Nikki murmurs, blinking open those green-brown eyes.

"Oh god…did we…?" I manage to choke out, unable to finish the sentence.

She yanks back the downy comforter, exposing a too-big cottonRockiesjersey and her black boy shorts. With eyes twinkling, she says, "What? Bump uglies? No, but then again it wasn't me who wouldn't put out. However, seeing as you were totally wasted last night, I almost feel bad for trying to get in your pants."

All I'm able to do for a moment is stare at her lewd smirk before sitting myself up. As I set my feet down upon the gray carpet of what I assumed to be her room, I glimpse my cell phone sitting upon the nightstand beside me. I almost hesitate to check it, I can already picture Stan's pissed off face and my mother's unadulterated fury, but I flip it open anyway, unsurprised to see several missed calls. Most of them were from Stan and yet only one was from my dad.

And then I see that I had one unread text, my heart instantly jumping to my throat when my eyes land upon the name of the sender.

_Cartman ~ Jew, we need to talk._

That was it, no ranting, no bitching, just a morbidly grim message that leaves my pulse pounding in my ears. Angrily, I slam my phone shut again, clutching it tightly in my fist as if I alone could just break the damn device in millions of tiny little fragments and make all of this disappear.

"I need to go," I say finally, staring down fiercely at my cell phone cover. Nikki slings an arm over my shoulder, pressing her chest tightly up against my back as her lingering fingers trace patterns across my bare chest. I suppress a shiver at the cool breaths rolling off my shoulders as she begins to speak.

"Last night was fun, and I'd hate to see you go without even so much as a kiss." I start to pull away, feeling suddenly cramped, but her hands land firmly back onto my shoulders, forcing me to sit down again. Nikki hops off the bed to come stand in front of me and cranes her head closer mine, saying, "Look Kyle, I really do like you, but I'm not all that good at this. Go out with me, I promise to make it worth your while."

"I just…," my mind flicks back annoyingly over to Cartman, "I just don't know right now."

Nikki's grip on me slackens, allowing me the moment to slip free. As I walk out, I shut the door softly behind me.

. . . . .

It seems like I'm forming a pattern, especially when I'm resting my head down on my desk Monday morning _still_ feeling hung over. The teacher drones on up front, as he had been for the last 45…46 minutes, but I had stayed, cheek against the cool faux-wood, and stared blankly at the clock. I can't even force myself to not think about Cartman anymore, letting him traipse through my mind like he owns the place.

The bell rings, drawing me out of my listless daze.

I gather up my things and head for my locker, all the while keeping my eyes trained upon my feet intently. Now, instead of having just one person to avoid, I had two – Cartman _and _Nikki. Just fabulous. For a moment, I just gaze at my locker, trying to remember my combination unsuccessfully. It was almost as if I just have too many things floating around to think clearly, as if rational thought was beyond me.

"Hey fag, where the hell have you been?" I wince as Stan slams hit fist down against the metal surface right beside me face. "I called you like a shit load last night after you _forgot _to meet us at the restaurant. Do you know how awkward that was? After like half an hour, your blind date just left, man. And then, when I get home, your parents call me, asking where you are and why you aren't answering your cell phone, so then I have to lie about how you were spending the night at my house because the date didn't go over well. You totally left me hanging dude, not cool."

I listen patiently to his whole rant when finally it seems like Stan is satisfied, him leaning against the lockers and staring expectantly back at me.

"I met Nikki last night."

Stand just blinks at me, confusion dawning in his bright blue eyes, as he asks, "What?"

"Last night, at Token's party. I went there instead and she was there. I don't know how she recognized me but she did and then we started dancing, and then drinking, she was just all over me and I didn't know what to do. And then I woke up the next morning in her bed and she-," I was stumbling over my words as they all came tumbling out at once, falling into nothing more than rambling, garbled heap.

"Wait, did you guys do it?" Stan's eyes suddenly went wide.

I shook my head vigorously, placing my hands firmly on his shoulders to steady myself, "No, we didn't."

"Okay, good," he breathes out a sigh, but then seems to catch himself. "I mean, well yeah you should totally tap that, but like…when you're ready, you know? Not when you're full-blown wasted and can't even enjoy it."

Stan notices my grin and just shoves me off, chuckling softly. I know he only cares about me, which is such a refreshment from the constant turmoil my life seems to be in. It helped to know that I'd always have my rock, my super best friend, when times were getting tough, yet at the same time, I also knew that I would have to handle this Cartman situation on my own.

"Thanks, dude," I grab him into a quick hug. "I gotta go though, class waiting. Got anatomy next and we all know how exciting that is," cue eye roll, "but I'll catch you later. And seriously, I owe you one."

Stan just waves as I snatch my text book out of my locker and take off down the hall with renewed energy. The minute bell overhead chimes, forcing me into a light jog as I take off down the more deserted parts of the hallways. _Why does fucking anatomy have to be at the other freaking end of the campus?_ I hold onto my bag as I make a tight turn around the corner, my feet slapping against the pavement.

Time seems to slow as I round the corner fully, deep brown eyes replacing the surrounding concrete walls momentarily as I stare into the very face of Eric Cartman. And then it was like someone hit the fast forward button.

With a grunt, I rebound off of the sturdier teen's shoulder, landing on my butt and successfully scattering my all of my stuff, papers adorning the path as they fluttered back down to the ground. For a moment, we just look at one another in shock, horror, fear – you name it. My insides churn painfully before I finally start grasping at all of my papers, stuffing them back into my bag carelessly.

Cartman moves as if to offer his hand to me but hesitates, which I quickly took advantage, pushing myself up from the floor, and doing a quick dust-off before moving to side step him. He obviously seems to have other plans as he blocks my path.

"I texted you."

Waving it off, I respond, "Must not have got it." I step to the left to get around him, when Cartman mirrors my action, once more cutting me off.

"What are you doing?" he asks, his voice soft yet rising in frustration, deeper than I remember it being. Almost instantly my pulse reacts as lewdly remember attacking his mouth with my own and tasting the skin of his neck.

"I-I don't know what you're talking about," I say through clenched teeth, trying desperately to squelch the arousing mental images assaulting my brain. Part of me wants to beat the shit out of the fat-ass for leaving me with these repulsive desires, but then the other half is begging me just to surrender and kiss the shit out of him.

"Don't-," Cartman cuts off his shouts and tries more quietly, "Don't give me that bullshit, Jew."

"Then what do you want from me, Cartman? I just can't…," I don't even finish my sentence as Cartman takes a sudden step closer to me, steadily reaching his fingers out toward me until both of his hands rest on my hips lightly. Our eyes lock, his torn between want and hate – reflecting my own thoughts exactly.

And then something within me snaps or maybe that was just reality touching bases again.

Roughly, I shove Cartman off of me, forcing him back a few steps. His face twists in confusion, yet is at the same moment marred by rage.

"You're free to go, Cartman," I snarl.

"What?" Anger begins boiling up in those chocolate eyes.

"You heard me! I'm releasing you from your 'servitude', so now you don't have to be around me or do as I say, you're totally free." _Which means we can finally put an end to all of this_, I mentally finish the sentence. Cartman grinds his teeth audibly, fixing me his trademark glare that makes a habitual shive run down my spine.

"So that's it?" he snaps, gaining vehemence with every word he spits out, "You're just gonna _fuck_ _me over_, just like that?"

I just glare darkly back at him, which he seems to take enough as my answer.

"Okay, _fine_, if that's how this is going to be, then good."

"Great," I shrug, trying to keep my temper from flaring, but I already know its so painfully obvious.

"Fine!" he shouts, looking every bit like the Cartman that I used to know.

This time, when I step past him, he doesn't stop me. From behind I hear a muted smack as if he just slammed his fist against the wall, which I wouldn't be surprised if he had, but I don't check. I just keep walking, never even looking back, but I can feel the Nazi's intent gaze burning into my back until I round the corner, out of his sight.

. . . . .

I skipped anatomy, which maybe any other day, I would have felt bad about, but opted instead to just pace around the school parking lot until the final bell rang.

I could kill him, I really could. My mind was on a constant rerun of all the things that had happened between that bastard and myself. I turn on my heel and begin stomping in the opposite direction.

He lied to me, led me on, and plagued me with stupid thoughts of him for weeks. And I even wanted to be with him! That was what really scared me. I went to _Barbwire_ that night with the intention of telling him how much I actually wanted to try and make some sort of a relationship work between us, no matter how insane it may seem. And that really was probably the most insane thought that's ever crossed my mind. I turn around and start pacing again.

But how on earth am I just supposed to forget about him, about everything I felt? I mean, yeah he's still an asshole but there's something about him, something that makes me want to be with him, endure all of his shit, just to see the golden moments of his soft side. My mind flicks back over to Cartman holding the bag of frozen veggies up to my eye, Cartman giving me a light tap of his fist against my cheek, Cartman catching me when I jumped out of the tree. Cartman Cartman _Cartman._

I shake my head, resuming my stomping around, as if I could take my rage out upon the ground below my feet. No, Cartman doesn't want me, not the way that I want him, and even if he did, would it be worth it? I suddenly remember Nikki.

Nikki, a _girl_, who's nice and funny and sexy and sweet. A _girl_ who I could show to my parents, go on dates with, depend on. Someone who isn't hell bent on ruining my life. Someone who I would have a stable, progressive relationship where I could be normal and be…happy. Of course, totally happy. And she has a great body, nice rack too.

The parking lot begins to flood with students, all leaving for the day when suddenly, one in particular catches my eye. _Speak of the devil_.

"Nikki! Hey," I jog over to her and her group of cheerleader friends, all standing around one girl's car idly, chatting about girl things. All eyes turn to me as I approach.

"Oh, uh…hey Kyle," she smiles up at me and steps away from her friends, telling them that we'd only be a minute. Once we were a good distance away from them, she turns back to me, eyes alight with surprise. "So, Jew-boy, how can I help you?"

I stare back into her eyes, mustering up all the courage I have, before blurting out, "Nikki…Will you be my girlfriend?"

. . . . .

* * *

**The End.**

**...Kidding!**

**A/N: Wouldn't you guys just hate me if I did that? Anyway, I know I know. "Omg there's an OC omg Omg!" Haha, well, we'll just see where this all leads. Anyway, hope you guys enjoyed this chapter that I *FINALLY* posted. ^_^ Reviews are much loved.**

**Oh, and will someone go review my other Kyman story _Boundaries_? I was aiming for 100+ reviews but only got 98 :/ I'm a bit discouraged.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: Alright, so this is a tad late, yeah like a month late and I'm soo soooo sorry guys! For those of you who hadn't given up on this story, I want you to know that I'm still working on it and still plan to see this fic all the way through. I may just lag in motivation at times, but I swear, this is the longest I will ever wait again. And if I do happen to wait longer than a month to update, feel free to totally bug me until I do becuase that will certainly get my lazy ass moving. Also, I will being going back to every other week because I'm already back to juggling two fics :D **

**Yep, so review, please, or don't, but then I'll be really sad and feel unapriciated :'(**

* * *

Chapter 9: Everything Means Nothing

**Cartman's POV (gasp!)**

I couldn't believe it, and maybe I wouldn't have if she wasn't sitting in front of me currently, nuzzling his fucking neck like a poodle. Within the first three minutes of meeting her, I hated Nikki Corzona. And it was most certainly because she was all over my Jew – I'm at least man enough to admit that much.

"…and then he looks at me and says, 'was this your dress?'" Nikki finishes telling some mundane story that makes Kenny and Stan burst into laughter. Kyle had kept his eyes glued to her the whole time but I knew it was only because he was just trying not to look at me. There was no way he liked her, no way in hell, she was just his beard, covering up those pesky gay feelings for me. Which of course only made me hate her even more.

"Hey, babe, I'm gonna go to the restroom real quick," Kyle gently nudges the tanned girl off of his lap before standing up. He glances at me briefly, those green eyes holding back his true emotions, before leaning down to give his "beard" a quick peck on the cheek and swiftly walking off to the other side of the cafeteria.

"You know, Nikki, I'm really glad that you and Kyle have hit it off so well," Stan says from beside me.

"Yeah," Kenny cuts in, "because we were all starting to think that Kyle was a total butt pirate, if you know what I mean."

It takes every fiber of my being not to spit out my chocolate milk all across the table. Stan frowns at me, hitting me on the back as I cough a few ragged times. Nikki just laughs, saying something about Kyle being shy – I pretty much tune her out anytime she opens that mouth of hers.

"…he is my little Jew," she finishes.

"You know, you kind of sound like Cartman," Stan nudges me with a taunting smirk, to which I only scowl. Kyle joins us again, and almost immediately Nikki is back on his lap. I'm actually starting to feel sick to my stomach from watching them.

It's a good thing that the bell rang, or else I might've just puked all over the 'happy couple' right then and there – and trust me, it was really tempting.

Over the past few days, my mind had been on a constant repeat of Kyle, over and over again, like a song that you just can't get out of your head as much as you try. Every second, I was thinking about Kyle, and every sleepless night, Kyle. With the dreams that I have managed, they were all about Kyle. It's Kyle 24/7 and I was beginning to lose my mind.

When he came to _Barbwire_ that night, I was at a loss. I mean, before he asked me to kiss him and, instead of wanting to punch him or ridicule him, I actually _wanted_ to. And then the kiss itself – hotter than any Centerfold magazine Clyde had let me borrow in Jr. High. So when he was standing there, in front of the stage, looking sexier than any playboy bunny ever could, I could've died of shock. At first, I refused believe that me and the Jew could have anything going on between us – I hated his guts and the idea of being with him was flat-out repulsive. But then that kiss.

It was all so maddening. Especially when I fucked everything up at _Barbwire_. I didn't know what he even wanted from me; _I _didn't even know what I wanted. When he walked out, I felt, for possibly the very first time in my life, true regret.

"_I have no idea where this is going but…I'd like to find out_." Kyle's words played in my head over and over again like a broken record and his face, so full of earnest want, was stained upon my mind, burned on the inside of my eyelids.

But then when I saw him in the hallway and he just tried to brush me off, even when I was trying to set everything straight. And I knew that I should be glad about being released from this so-called contract … but I wasn't. However, right afterwards, Kyle runs off to go get a girlfriend. One with giant boobs and who makes twigs look fat.

I knew what this meant though – Kyle wasn't about to chase after me, which meant that I would have to. I would have to make the Jew fall in love me, this time for good.

. . . . .

A Friday spent alone, certainly something that I wasn't used to anymore.

I arrive back at my house at nearly three in the morning, the smell of smoke and booze clinging to my stage outfit and trench coat. As soon as the front door clicks shut behind me, the wig comes off.

"I'm home," I call out to no one. The rest of my clothes slowly come off, first tugging my stilettos off, followed by unlacing my corset, generally a hard thing to do by myself. When at last I'm free from the leather death-trap, I peel off the shinny, ruffled skirt that matched my deep violet boa. At last unrestricted by anything, I head upstairs to take a much needed shower to wash away the stench of the bar.

It's not that I don't like my job – sure it's a little risqué but I find it enjoyable – but there are times when I wish I didn't have a need for it, but then again, I need this job to help pay the bills. It was the highest paying job for the least amount of work hours, giving me well over minimum wage and allowing me at least to do something that was fun.

I step into the spray of warm water, letting the droplets run down my hair and drip off of my nose, one hand pressed against the cool tile.

My mother had left me almost four months ago to go be with some rich guy from Texas, just one of her many lovers, who she was going to marry this time. Initially she asked me to come along, and I almost agreed, but I didn't. At first, right after she left, she paid for everything – the electricity, the insurance, the car – but that became less frequent until finally she just started sending me checks which have also have become increasingly scarce. Every now and again, I get one from her for maybe five-hundred dollars, nothing more than that. Which I was forced to save for the remainder of my college fund.

Getting a job was the only option I had left, so I figured that pretending to be a woman once a week was worth it in exchange for being able to live outside of foster care and on my own. I just never planned on the Jew messing things up as he usually does.

I turn the water off with a flick of my wrist.

Maybe because I simply want everything Kyle doesn't, therefore I want to be with him. But it was more than just being with him, as gay as that already sounds, but it was rather that the passion I had felt over hating him had suddenly turned sexual, in an odd sort of way. It almost scared me…almost.

I step out of the shower, wrapping one towel around myself tightly and another in a turban over my hair. It was odd, not having Kyle around anymore, as weird as that already seems. _You know what he's trying to get at_, I think to myself as I wander down my dark hallway. _He just doesn't want to say it directly, and maybe it's better that way, so maybe you ought to just let this one slide. _

Carelessly, I snatch a t-shirt out of my drawer and slip on a clean pair of boxers. Yeah, I probably should let this whole Kyle-thing go…yeah probably.

. . . . .

I could ignore the stares, and hell I could even ignore the whispers but when I walk up Monday morning to my locker and Kenny has the stupidest grin on his face, I feel like kicking his ass and also feel a tad foolish. Stan at least has the decency to put a hand over his mouth to hide his smile, asshole.

"Cartman…you know you what your shirt says right…?" Kenny half chuckles, biting his lip. I give him the coldest glare I possibly can but as per usual, he shrugs it off, hardly even fazed. "And dude, when Kyle sees that, he's probably going to die from joy. Did he put you up to this?"

_I'm hoping he doesn't try to kill me,_ I think firstly but instead give some half-hearted confirmation. Kenny doesn't have to know my reasons and I figure if I tell him that I'm secretly lusting after a certain Jew then that would be going too far. And besides that, it was…thrilling to play this secret little back-and-forth between him and I.

"Hey guys."

My heart does this funny wrench – something that Kyle had unwittingly become a master at creating recently – as I turn to face the Jew. Thankfully the harppie isn't anywhere in sight because that would've made this situation a whole hell of a lot worse.

"How's it going, Jew?" I try to stay as nonchalant as I possibly can but those green eyes land upon the words boldly displayed upon my chest and anger begins to boil within those depths.

"Kyle's…Bitch…?" he reads the shirt's text aloud, his gaze flickering between me and my hot-pink tee with that oh-so simple phrase blazing in large white front across the front. For a moment he just stares at me, that exasperated one that he used to give me when we were young and I'd made some ridiculous (although not entirely untrue) comment about Jews.

Kenny and Stan begin to laugh somewhere in the background, but I barely hear, being too focused on the Jew's facial expression for anything right now. He looks mad – I can tell because the corner of his mouth minutely tugs downward.

"Cartman, can I talk to you?" he asks icily with jaw clenched tightly. "_Alone."_

He doesn't give me the chance to respond when he latches himself onto my wrist, nearly dragging me down the hallways and around a couple of corners until we're in one of the more deserted wings of the school building.

"If I had known that just this would have gotten you so hot and flustered, I would've worn this shirt awhile ago," I try and fail to joke.

Kyle whirls to face me as he says, "This isn't it, you know. The way you make someone fall for you. It's not just wearing some shirt that says you belong to them; it's about actually fucking _caring_, asshole. God, I can't even believe that I ever even considered having anything with you!"

I feel as if my body is reacting of its own accord as I snatch his upper-arm in a bruising grip – Kyle doesn't even flinch. My voice drops down to a dangerous whisper as the torrent of wild emotions that had bubbling up from within me began to at surface, "But you did consider it, and now I'm telling you, _I won't let this go, Jew._"

Roughly, Kyle forces his arms up between our chests and shoves. Hard. I slam back into the unforgiving metal lockers but that pain doesn't even register, not while I'm staring at that stupid fucking idiot who I would give my life for.

"Fuck you, Cartman," he snarls just before storming off. I watch him turn the corner and then he's gone, leaving me to just listen to his footsteps as they echo down the empty halls. Sighing, I let my eyes shut as I slide down to the floor.

_Somehow, I'm going to make this work, I know I can_, I think to myself determinedly. _I just need the right opportunity to make Kyle mine – I will win._

Overhead, the first period bell chimes.

. . . . .

As it turns out, this opportunity didn't come for at least a week or so which meant a lot of time just sitting idly around the Jew bastard and that stupid ho that clung to him every second, also a lot of that time was spent dealing with the gaping hole Kyle had left. Everyday, it was Kyle all over her, all the while using her like a shield to hide from me, so when I finally had my moment, I sprang.

"Do you guys know anywhere fun in town?" Nikki asks absently as she runs her hands through Kyle's Jew-fro during lunch, still slung across him like she was glued him or something.

Kenny and Stan both take a moment to think, but an idea hits me.

"_Barbwire_," I say casually, bluntly ignoring the Jew's distressed glance at me. "Yeah, it's this great little bar almost the next town over – it's kind of a drive, but worth it."

Nikki arches an eyebrow, looking definitely interested as she leans forward, resting her forearms across the cafeteria suddenly all business. She purses her lips, "Sounds really seedy."

"And you'd be right," I confirm.

"Booze?"

"Given freely."

"Music?"

I spare a quick look up at Kyle, smirking as I reply, "Best on Friday night."

Nikki grins widely back at her boyfriend, "Then it's a date."

. . . . .

"Oh my Jesus Christ," I breathe for the billionth time that night. Ruben places a cautious hand on my shoulder – he and I were hesitantly friends after the whole Kyle-pretended-to-be-my-jealous-lover fiasco.

"You're going to be fine," he assures me. I pace back and forth across backstage, careful not to trip on any electrical cords. I don't know why I'm freaking out – but in my panic I accidentally launched into the whole story about me and Kyle. I had to improvise a bit and may have let Ruben get the wrong idea, but he understood that the Jew I was crazy about was out there with some tramp. And I would have to lay it all out there tonight.

"I mean, for a guy not to fall for you – in that? – well he'd be insane," Ruben gestures to my outfit, a personal favorite, which is a tight corset that has a lacy top, yet most is concealed by a silky transparent shawl draped across my shoulders and neck. Below that, there's a shimmery miniskirt of sorts that cuts off in delicate ruffles about mid thigh. Everything else, fishnets and stiletto combat boots. I'm even donning my favorite wig – a deep reddish brown like my natural hair color that comes nearly down to the center of my back and has one bleach blonde highlight on a strand right over my temple.

"Well, yeah alright, I look pretty freakin' sweet," I conceded, "but what if my voice cracks, like seriously?"

Ruben clasps my upper arms, forcing me to fully face his dark eyes, "You're beautiful, you sound beautiful, and if that guy doesn't realize that, then he's not worth your time. Now, go sing that ass of yours off and I'll be playing back up the whole time."

With that final encouraging speech, Ruben spins me back around shoves me lightly toward the curtain. The house is oddly full tonight, but I try not to look for Kyle because I know that once I do, it'll be hard to look away. Tremulous step after step, finally reaching the microphone that I clutch onto like a drowning man to a life preserver.

One breath in.

One breath out.

I open my mouth and start to sing.

"_Some people live for the fortune – some people live just for the fame. Some people live for the power – some people live just to play the game_," I feel the surge in my chest as the piano music rises behind me, daring me to sing out. "_Some people think that the physical things define what's within – and I've been there before, but that life's a bore. So full of the superficial_."

And then I see him, just as I belt out, "_Some people want it all, but I don't want nothing at all if it ain't you babe, if I ain't got you, baby. Some people want diamond rings – some just want everything, but everything means nothing if I ain't got you_."

Suddenly, I meant every word of that song. I didn't want anything else if I didn't have Kyle – and no amount of iPads or world domination could ever compensate for him. Tears prickle at the edged of my eyes and it feels like someone just ripped a hole though my chest at this realization.

"_Hand me the world on a silver platter and what good would it be with no one to share, with no one who truly cares for me? Some people want it all – but I don't want nothing at all, if it ain't you baby, I ain't got you baby. Some want diamond rings – some just want everything, but everything means nothing,_" I lock eyes with him from across the room as I sing the last words, "_if I ain't got you._"

A tear found its way streaking down my cheek as I press my hand firmly against my mouth to suppress a sob from escaping. The audience erupts into applause as I let the mic slip from my fingers, dashing off the stage.

_What the hell is wrong with me_? I scream silently in my head. Ruben rushes over to say something or try and console me, but I don't let him get close enough. Instead, I opt for making my break out the back exit and barrel out into the wintry night waiting.

* * *

**Author's After Note: Alright, so Cartman seems OOC but it's just him growing up and maturing and dealing with the very traumatic idea that he may want just want Kyle, but not in the way he initially feels at the start of the chapter. At first, it's about winning the game of love, but now I think Cartman's realizing that all he wants, all he really needs, is the Jew and that love isn't really a game with winners or losers. ;) Or maybe he's just on his man-period. Who knows.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: So it has been forever since this has been updated and I seriously apologize for that. Hopefully I can get updates quicker and also have them be longer :D wouldn't that be great? If you concur, then review. Nah, I'm just kidding...or am I? No, but on a more serious note, I am getting a wee bit frustrated with the ammount of popel who will subscribe to this but not bother to take the tiny 10 seconds to leave a review, but for all of you people out there who also write, then I suppose you know what I mean. **

**But whatever, not like I can do anything about it because I'm definitely not going to hold these chapters ransom for however many reviews. A really warm and sincere thanks to all my reading reviewers and a wave of acknowledgement to those who just read. Please enjoy the tenth chapter of Better Left Unsung.**

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Chapter 10: Complications

**Kyle's POV**

I stare at the place where Cartman was standing on stage a moment ago and feel my stomach do this painful lurch as I suddenly want – need – to chase after him. Yet, even as I lean forward just slightly as if to get up, Nikki's grip on my arm tightens enough, keeping me rooted in my half-standing position. The din of the bar rushes back to me as reality strikes painfully.

_Cartman wants me. _

The thought hits me like a ton of bricks as I settle back down into the booth's seats, staring without seeing anymore.

_Cartman wants me. _

I can only imagine how stricken I must look right now. With a jolt, I'm back up on my feet, however, now Nikki grasps on tighter to my wrist. I glance down in the dim lighting of the bar at her, my jaw working soundlessly as I try to force something out to say – but nothing comes. What am I supposed to tell her anyway?

"Kyle."

Her brown eyes glitter dangerously back at me, the flickering light of the candle on the table which cast shadows upon Nikki's beautiful face. That look says it all – leave and it changes everything.

"I'm sorry," I sigh and pull away from her.

The half-drunken crowd is still cheering wildly as I take the stage stairs two at a time until reaching the top. I round the corner of the dividing red curtains, frantically scanning for Cartman anywhere. My heart drops as I whirl around the empty backstage area until my eyes land on the backdoor and the bright green beacon of hope, illuminating 'EXIT'.

Just as I take a step, a hand yanks me back around while its partner in crime latches onto the collar of my shirt. I come face to face with…Rudy? _Or was it Ruben?_ Whatever his name, the pudgy hipster looks furious – a hard thing to imagine but true enough.

"You're such a fucking tool, you know that?" he demands angrily, giving me a rough a shake. He took the words right out of my mouth. "Do you?"

My own temper flares as I grasp his wrist closest to my face and hold on with a vice-like grip. Once again, I feel smug when a fleeting wince of pain crosses his face, eyes scrunching behind thick rimmed glasses.

"_Let me go_," I growl, my own voice sounding distant and unreal.

"Yeah?" Ruben challenges, lifting his chin a bit in defiance. "And then what? Did you ever even think of that? Erica is a nice girl – and sure, sometimes she seems mean and conceited but that's not how she is, not really anyway – but she doesn't deserve scum like you. She deserves a guy who will treat her right-,"

"Like you?" I ask abruptly. "Give me a fucking break."

"And why not? At least I know who I want and don't bring some tramp around!" he shoots back acidly. "Why don't you just leave with that skinny ho and leave Erica alone? She would be better off without you."

"Because…," words suddenly fail me. _Why am I chasing after Cartman, even after all this shit, even when I know that a relationship is out of the question? And why the hell does that hurt so much?_

Ruben releases me, shoving me away from him slightly, and stuffs his hands back into his 'shabby-chic' trench coat. With a soft sigh, he turns away and begins to just stalk off, shoulders hunched in defeat.

"You better figure that out, _Kyle_," Ruben calls back at me, "because if you don't, I'll settle for being Erica's second choice."

With that, he disappears around the curtains, leaving me with a very tortuous thought yet empty handed. I groan in frustration, raking a hand through my wild curls. _What the hell am I supposed to do?_

. . . . .

I rolled over in my bed for what seems to be the millionth time later the same night – nearly morning – and stare out my window at the rising sun that's coming up over the surrounding mountains of South Park. I can't help but sigh. Again.

A few hours ago, I'd taken Nikki home after a blatantly awkward drive. We pointedly avoided the subject of Barbwire, her opting to face the window the entire time while I stayed focused on the road. Even when I pulled into her driveway, she didn't glance at me, just barely muttered a 'thanks' and a 'see you later' before getting out.

Groaning, I flop over onto my back and throw my arms across my face in exasperation. I have no idea where this is all going and the thought of seeing Cartman again makes my stomach turn in a painful way. When had I begun to feel something other than hatred for that fat Nazi bastard? My mind flicks annoyingly over to him, grinning at me, holding frozen veggies up to my jaw, singing with that mildly flirtatious smirk, busting me out of detention.

_Shit!_

_I can't deal with this right now,_ I decide suddenly. Graduation was soon, which meant college, which ultimately meant leaving this hick-town, which was what I'd been wanting my whole life, right? Of course. _And until college admissions come in, I still have prom to go to, plus finals. I can't let this…thing with Cartman throw me off from my goals. _

And Nikki – Nikki was _nice_, she was _smart,_ she wasn't a total Jew-basher and she was also a girl. I could be happy with her, have a relationship, get out of college and then settle down with her, maybe even have some kids. Nikki could be the door to normalcy, where I could at least be content.

I sigh to myself softly. _Yeah, that sounds…regular._

With another grunt, I roll once more to face my nightstand and retrieve my cell phone. Hopefully, I can fix things and finally get back on the right track, before all of this with Cartman started. I sigh.

. . . . .

"You look handsome, dude."

I fiddled with my tie again, straightening and un-straightening the damned thing. From behind me in the mirror, Stan brushes invisible dust once again from his vest, looking every bit the stereotypical jock from every teen movie. His jet black hair is its usual tousled self, but he looks much more clean-cut than the kid I'd grown up with. Stan's a lady killer in black slacks, matching dress shoes, along with a black blazer over a deep gray vest with the collar of a white shirt peeking out. A small purple corsage is pinned to the fold on the jacket, looking both elegant yet not too feminine.

"Thanks," I reply sarcastically, done with inspecting my best friend, "but I think Wendy will have a hard time keeping her paws off you tonight, dude. Seriously, you look like some model from one of those sexy cologne ads."

"Well, I _am_ pretty fucking hot," he concedes with a smirk as he walks up to me. In response, I give him a light punch in the arm, "but I fear you might be the one to outshine me tonight, darling. I mean, damn Kyle, if anyone looks like a model, I'd say it's gotta be you."

I glance at my reflection again. My curls had taken on a soft bronze look that barely reached my light green eyes, giving a stark contrast with my black ensemble accompanied by only a thin and long white tie standing out against.

"Okay, maybe I do look…not so Jewish," I admit slowly.

Stan turns me around to face him, taking the tie into his own hands as he too begins to absently tighten and then loosen it. His pale blue eyes stare back up at me for a second before returning to his work.

He asks quietly, almost hesitating, "Kyle…dude, you're okay, right? Like, you – you're good? Nothing wrong?"

I pause, then force a quick smile as I take a small step away from Stan. "No, yeah, I'm great, I'm fantastic. Why wouldn't I be? I'm going to prom with a totally sexy and funny chick, man. I'm fucking fabulous, why should I not be?"

My best friend blinks slowly, just once, and then something on his face changes as he gives a nonchalant shrug. We're left with a brief moment of silence where we each start to say something but stop and waver. Before we can either get any words out, Mr. Marsh – Randy – flings the door open carelessly to his son's room.

"Come on, boys, I'm sure you both look beautiful and your dates probably won't call you fat," the older man says gruffly with a roll of his eyes. "But if you plan on getting there at all, you probably ought to leave. Now."

Stan just rolls his eyes as well, snagging his car keys off of his desk. After a few photos and Stan's dad bursting into tears of pride for his son with his mom oddly comforting the man, we leave and head to pick up the girls.

Thankfully, Wendy's house is a two-story, so the girls got to take their slow-walk down the staircase together. Wendy, as always, looks stunning in a long dark purple gown and black lace shawl. On the other hand, Nikki looked drop-dead gorgeous in a black, backless gown that matched my outfit, her dark hair falling to her shoulder in familiar ringlets. A few more pictures and we're on our way.

"You look good," I murmur to my date in the backseat of Stan's car. Nikki spares a look at me but it's one that holds some weight that I don't recognize. Once more, all I get from my girlfriend is a rushed 'thanks', thus signaling the end of our conversation.

With the school's shitty budget, the prom is being held in the gymnasium, but damn, when we walk in, I have to hand it to the decoration committee. Little strings of lights are hung in low arches across the ceiling along with white paper lamps that adorn the walls. A large space has been cleared for a dance floor with a stage in front of that but all around it, small tables with white table cloths sit, illuminated by a white candle in the center. In the corners of the room, canopies are in place, shrouded by thin, see-though curtains and inside there are white downy throws and lavishly silken pillows.

"Seems like the school splurged this year," Wendy comments dryly before launching into a speech about needless décor and starving babies in Africa. Meanwhile, Stan just smiles at her like an idiot while she rants.

"Testing one, two, mm'kay. Welcome South Park High students, we hope you enjoy your prom, mm'kay? Please don't dance inappropriately, because freak-dancing's bad, mm'kay?" Mr. Mackey drawls into the microphone on stage just before loud pop-ish music with a thrumming beat plays from the giant speakers on stage, followed by the whoops and hollers of the prom goers. The crowd of well-dressed teens all make their way to the dance floor, lead of course by Kenny, who was already jumping and wiggling to the beat.

Silently, Nikki and I make our way out there.

I've never really been one for dances, seeing as all you do for four hours is grind up on your date and watch other people grind on theirs, but try to awkwardly not make eye contact.

But that's exactly what I end up doing for the first few songs. Until of course, the universe decided to shit on my night. Just as the song changes to a slower, actual dancing type of rhythm, it happens.

There's a tap on my shoulder, and as I turn to look, I feel my stomach drop.

"_Kahl,_ may I have this dance?" Cartman smirks at me in delight as my face twists probably into a look of sheer horror. He looks even better in a run-of-the-mill black suit and tie than all the frills and tight leather.

"Actually-,"

"Go ahead," Nikki chuckles, stepping back as if to retreat. "You know, I need to catch up with my girlfriends and get some of that spiked punch. So share a dance or two, and I'll be back in just a little bit." My date abandons me with the last person I want to see on the entire planet, shooting me a little knowing wink over her shoulder.

"At least she can take a hint," Cartman snorts from behind me.

I whirl to face him, feeling suddenly and ambiguously furious, as I demand, "What the hell do you want?"

He almost appears taken aback, but as always, Cartman recovers smoothly, extending a hand to me as he says, "A dance, simple enough Jew."

"Fuck you."

"Gladly," comes his retort. But, before I can beat the hell out of the asshole Nazi, he snatches my hand and forcibly guides the other to his shoulder while he clamps down on both my wrist and waist.

"So, why are you here?" I growl under my breath, giving in as I follow his steps begrudgingly while keeping in time with the music.

Cartman's smirk gets a bit cold as he answers, "I figured that I could trap you here so that way you couldn't just pussy out like you did last time."

"Excuse me?" I exclaim exasperatedly. "_You_ were the one who ran away, for the record. _I_ was the one who came chasing after you. I never 'pussied out'," I snarl, bringing my heel down upon the top of his foot with all of my weight.

"What? Oh come on, Kyle! At least I came after you and I tried to fix this shit, but _you_ were the one who got a girlfriend and have been hiding behind your fucking 'beard' this whole time," Cartman in turn crushes my own toes with his foot.

"Oh, right? Like you weren't dangling Ruben in front of my face this whole time and using him the exact same way!" _Smash_! I stomp angrily down once more.

"Ouch, fuck! Don't give me any of that bullshit, Jew-fag, you were the one who started this all in the first place – _you_ were the one who ordered me to kiss you!" _Crunch!_

"You're the one who fucking did it!" _Crack!_

"You kissed me back!"

We had stopped dancing and now Cartman was grasping onto my upper arms tightly, staring up at me in such a desperate rage that I felt my heart skip a beat.

"I don't know what the hell it is that you want from me Cartman, I seriously fucking don't," I let my voice drop down to hoarse whisper, just barely over the music.

"No, no, don't try to turn this all around on me," Cartman shakes his head in frustration as his hands drop back down to his sides. "I'm the one who doesn't know what your game is. You make me your 'slave' and then all you do is force me to hang out with you, then order me to kiss you. What do you want from me, _Kahl_, 'cause I'm getting sick of all this bullshit."

"God, you don't fucking get it, do you?" I snap, "Stop acting like the victim, asshole! You're not the one who's had to deal with all of your shit over the years – I have. Not you, _me_. And when I finally get a chance to get back at you, you still manage to somehow make it all blow up in my face! I can't ever win with you."

"Yeah, well you just did – I'm done," Cartman shakes his head slightly and starts to turn away from me.

My anger gets the better of me as I shout at his back, "Don't give me that crap. It's not like you actually have a heart, you fucking Nazi prick!"

"Really?" Cartman's shoulders shake slightly with a humorless and dry chuckle. "Because it feels like it's breaking to me."

The expression that crosses Cartman's face when he glances over his shoulder back at me is enough to make my blood run cold and my pulse halt. His eyes look red and watery, his mouth just a grim line. And that _look_. The amount of hurt and pure _anguish_ in it penetrates me with the intensity, making my breath stop short in my throat. At last, our contact is broken just as the song comes to an end around us, the couples all splitting apart.

As he walks away, a distance grows that appears almost infinite. I realized that I'd let Cartman slip through my fingers like sand. Again.

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**A/N after thoughts: Damn! Slipped away again! Alright, so maybe you ladies and gentlement are getting a little frustrated but hang in there. We are at the peak of my story - past the point of no return. So, until next time, darlings! **


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: Alright! So this took waaaaay too long to put up but here it is! I hope you guys really enjoy this chapter and just know that I'm really really really incredibly sorry for the amazingly long delay ;A; Forgive meh? You guys wouldn't believe how hard it was to write this because I've had so many senarios planned out in my head, but I decided to go with this once, and yeah, so please don't kill me.**

**I hope you guys read, review and most importantly - enjoy this chapter of Better Left Unsung. I will definately try harder to get updates out _earlier _and _faster _****too. Enjoy! ~CutiePie**

******p.s. I was listening to _the Scientist _by Coldplay while writing this, so yeah. If you guys need any mood music for the last scene of the chapter.**

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Chapter 11: Just Guessing

My anger dissipates like a deflating balloon as Cartman vanishes into the crowd, not once glancing back. I almost want to go after him, chase him down, and force him to understand how I feel, but I don't. I can't.

The music of the dance floor is too loud as the song changes to a fast beat, making the other prom-goers shift in their movements. People turn back into indistinguishable masses that throb and pulse and writhe together as one. But a small, tight circle forms around me as I stand utterly still.

I feel my throat close up and for the first time in a long while, tears prickle at the corners of my eyes. In frustration I bite down on my lip to stop the halting sob that was gathering and had been gathering since this shit had begun. I don't know whether I want Cartman out of my life or to never leave me again.

_Not like it matters, seeing as he already made that call_, I think to myself dejectedly. With the back of my hand, I wipe away the moisture before it could spill across my cheek. I'm just too tired and sick of the crap to let myself go and break down.

"Dude, what just happened?" Stan walks up behind me and tries to sling his arm over my shoulders – I stoop to allow for the height difference. I can't help but lean into his hold slightly and give in to being comforted. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he rubs his thumb across my shoulder and sighs that soft fluttery breath that lets me know how upset he is that I won't let him in.

"I…," I trail off, clearing my throat with a bit more conviction. "It's nothing."

. . . . .

Sleep won't come.

I roll over to stare at my alarm clock as it strikes six o'clock, the radio playing a slow country song to tell me it's time to get up. The sun outside my window is just barely breeching the horizon, the start of a new day. I greet Monday as she just begins.

I feel like I'm in a daze as I pull myself up from the cocoon of sheets and rake a sloppy hand through my tangled mane. I feel empty and hollow. I feel like today will be absolutely shitty. And I feel like I didn't want to feel anything at all, but of course I do. Too many things all at once, too many of these damned feelings that assault any and all logical thinking.

"Hey, Kyle, I'm taking the shower first!" Ike calls to me from the hallway. The water rushes on without me even giving a response, but I don't care. With a groan, I flop back down and sigh as _he_ enters my mind again, fleetingly leaving a bitter taste in my mouth and an ache in my chest that's slowly becoming nearly impossible to ignore.

_Cartman is a virus_, I frown to myself. _A cancer that will spread without any hope of recession. A disease that won't kill me – just keep me clinging to life._

"Yeah, real positive thoughts," I murmur to the stale air of my room. God, why do things always have to be so fucked up between he and I? Why can't we just for once realize that this stupid situation didn't have to be this difficult? I have no answers for my questions.

My hand flops down on the clock with a _thump_, silencing the whine of a man with a guitar who's woman left him and took the dog too. I can relate. It seems like Cartman has taken everything from me, or maybe I was the one who'd stolen it all.

. . . . .

School has become monotonous. Everyday I 'get up' from lounging in my bed for eight straight hours and then drag my sorry ass to high school to fill out the remaining two weeks before graduation. There are finals that no one cares about and end of the year parties that everyone attends each night. All but me, that is.

But everyday I went to school, I found myself staring at the empty space at the lunch table where Cartman usually was blabbing about the evils of Jews and hippies. For a whole week, he was gone and no one seemed to even care – it was like he'd just disappeared off the face of the earth. I was stuck debating whether that was a good thing or not.

I was madder at him for being gone than anything else. If at least he had been here, calling me a stupid Jew, then maybe things would've been okay, but his absence spoke volumes. I'm just not sure exactly what it said.

"Dude, are you alright?" Kenny frowns as he pokes my nonresponsive arm. I can only stare blankly back at him, my cheek resting against the cool plastic of the lunch table. My eyes feel tired, sore, and suddenly, I felt like I could drift off right there.

"I'm…," I almost say fine but stop myself. I'm not fine, I'm not okay, and I'm not going to be_. Not until…_my thought trails off, unable to finish. "So, finals are starting to get rough, huh?"

Kenny's deep blue eyes flash with understanding. My down-hill slide is definitely not open for discussion any more. He scoots over close to me, just his arms brushing against mine but it's enough for me.

"Yeah, I think I failed my math final," he shoots me a sideways grin and places a soft hand down on my head. His fingers delve into my tangled locks as he absently plays with my hair. "When did you stop wearing your hat, you sneaky Jew? I bet you're having to beat the ladies back with a stick."

Cartman's face pops painfully into my head as I reply, "Oh, you know it. And I just figured that it was time for a change, that's all."

Kenny snorts and opens his mouth to say more when suddenly Clyde and Token hurtle into the bench across from us, looking winded but grinning like idiots. Stan is hot on their heels and wearing his usual exasperated face – any moment now and he'd start pinching the bridge of his nose.

"You guys have heard, haven't you?"Clyde is practically vibrating he's so excited.

"Dude, you said that I could tell him!" Token protests loudly, punching his counterpart in the shoulder. The two kick up an argument, their voices just a hapless noise without meaning.

"Shut it, both of you," Stan interrupts loudly, pushing them both apart as he takes a seat between them. In contrast to the other two teen's delight, Stan appears…anxious? Or maybe nervous? He swallows thickly as he leans forward, capturing my gaze.

"What is it?" I'm almost afraid to ask, yet at the same moment, I have a feeling I already know what my super best friend is about to tell me. I don't know if I can handle this.

"Cartman's uh – Kyle, Cartman's moving," he runs a hand across his face before continuing. "He's going to go live with his mom in Texas. I…I thought you'd want to know. I'm so sorry, dude."

I blink a couple of times. _What?_

"Why…," I trail off before mentally slapping myself, "Why apologize? Finally, I don't have to deal with the fatass. We should throw _him_ a going away party and then not invite him – wouldn't that just be awesome?"

Clydeand Token high-five but Stan looks incredulous, as if I had transformed into an entirely different person right before his eyes. Already I feel my anger spark – had this been a few months ago, he would've been celebrating with me. A few weeks ago, I wouldn't have care. A few weeks ago, I would've been happy.

But now?

I was anything but.

. . . . .

"Bubala, you have to leave the house sometime," my mother's nasally voice calls over the TV. I grind my teeth and turn the volume up higher. She has a point, and I know it, but that doesn't mean I really want to admit it. "Stan called again today. Did you two have a fight?"

My mom's stout frame blocks me from the screen as she steps in front, still drying a dinner plate in her pudgy hands. Don't get me wrong, I love my mom, but she just didn't know when to leave something alone.

"No, we didn't," I reply tightly, trying to lean around her to watch the rest of my show. She side-steps again, once more blocking my view. Sighing, I set the TV remote down and look directly at her with a fake smile on my lips, "Everything's fine, mom. I just haven't had much time to hang out with him is all, seriously. It's busy with the end of school and everything."

"Good," she finally moved out of the way but remains standing next to the couch, "because Sharon is coming over and Stan's coming with her."

Unconsciously, I groan as I snap, "God Mom, we aren't kids anymore. You can't just arrange some 'playdate'." I add snarky air-quotes.

Before she can reply, the door bell rings. A look of expectancy crosses her face before she goes to answer, swinging the door open to reveal Mrs. Marsh and Stan. His eyes land on me and instantly looks guilty – he used his mom to bypass me shutting everyone out. Great.

"Sharon, come in, come in!" My mom opens the door wider to let the pair slip inside the warmth of our house. "Boys if you want any food, I just went to the grocery. Me and Sharon will be back in the kitchen if you need us."

My mother and Mrs. Marsh scurry back to the other side of the house, leaving me and Stan to stare at each other awkwardly. Finally, he hangs his coat on the rack, along with his scarf and hat, but remains standing.

"Um, what are you watching?" he asks quietly, gesturing to the TV.

"Jerseylicious."

He wrinkles his nose, "You actually like that shit?"

I just shrug and move over to allow for enough room for Stan to join me. He takes the hint as he sits down next to me. We watch as two overly tanned and munchkin-like girls scream at one another, arms flailing and weaves bouncing in a wild rage.

"Are you going to tell me what the hell is going on?" Stan says suddenly, twisting to face me. I frown and continue to just watch the show. I know I can't just keep putting him off – he's my best friend – but for god's sake, what am I even supposed to say?

"I don't know what you're talking about." _Maybe the oblivious route would work._

"Bullshit, and you know it," he growls. _Apparently not_. "Something's happened between you and Cartman – like at prom, what the hell was that all about? And you've bailed out on me and Kenny on more than one occasion on a Friday night. Look, I'm not an idiot – what's really going on, dude?"

"It's nothing."

"Dude…you're my best friend, if you're in trouble or if he's done something to you-,"

"No, it's not like that-," I feel those tears that I'd held back for such a long time bubbling up to the surface. I cannot cry, please at least not in front of Stan.

"Come on, dude, you can tell me anything," he leans in closer, putting one hand on the center of my back and rubbing in slow, long circles. More tears gather up, threatening to spill over. I know I can't hold the truth back any longer.

"I just…I just don't want him to leave," I blurt out, my voice cracked and broken. It's like someone opened the flood gates – all of the emotions I'd locked away come rushing back out full force. I bury my head into Stan's shoulder, clutching onto him as silent sobs rack my body. "_Oh god,_ I don't want to lose him, Stan. _I don't want him to leave me_."

Stan, blessedly, holds onto me just as tightly as I cry miserably. It was true. I didn't want Cartman to leave. I want to argue with him, I want to see him sing, I want to be with him. I just don't know how.

"Then go after him," he murmurs against my temple, lips brushing against my skin softly. Stan rocks back and forth with me until at last my tears come to stop and sleep begins to overtake me. I fall into blissful blackness.

. . . . .

Stan's words ring in my ears as I stand outside the Cartman residence Saturday morning. It looks so normal, and I'm half expecting to see Cartman walk right out the front door, wearing his usual leather get-up and that damnable smirk of his. But of course, things are too different. I stare up at the overcast sky as I think, _if only._

I summon up all the courage I have and make my way up to his front door, each step bringing my closer to uncertainty. I don't know what I'm even going to tell him. For some reason, my mind had pieced together some romance-novel ending where I sweep Cartman up into my arms and tell him that I love him, baby. A guy can hope.

The knock on his front door might as well have been a thunder clap with the way it seems to echo all around me. From inside his house, I hear a scuffle followed by a muted thud and then quick footsteps. I swallow nervously.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," Cartman hollers from the other side of the door. Now I wonder whether or not he'll just slam it back in my face.

"Um, it's just me…Kyle," I call back. And then the sounds stop. The door slowly opens, Cartman standing before me, confusion resonating in those chocolate depths. His hair looks mousy, windswept, and my chest tightens when I think about running my hands through it and grasping fistfuls only to pull him closer.

"What are you doing here?" he asks haltingly, searching my face intently.

"I – um, can I come in?" I ask, breathing out a breath of hot air that spirals away before dissipating. It seemsSouthParkwas only getting colder, or maybe that was just me.

Cartman moves aside to let me squeeze in past him, I automatically shudder as his clean scent washes over me. His house seems bare yet cluttered at the same time. Boxes are stacked against all the walls, yet all of the major pieces of furniture are gone. All but one – a large piano, half covered by a sheet in the corner. My stomach lurches.

"So, you're moving," I say, trying to put on some air of normality, but keep my back to Cartman. I can practically _feel_ his gaze boring into my back.

A short pause, a breath in, and then, "Yeah, I am actually, to go live with my mom and her new husband down inTexas. She says the have a great college down there, plus an apartment nearby for me to live in."

"Sounds good."

"I suppose it does," he murmurs. Finally I turn back to watch him as Cartman takes the last of the remaining nick-knacks off the shelf of his fireplace and places them into an open box on a stack nearby. My heart drops down into the knotted mess of my insides. "So what's up? What are you doing here?"

He keeps his back to me now.

"Uh, nothing much, really." I can't find anything better to say, so I stay silent, waiting patiently for his response. It doesn't come right away, Cartman seemingly mulling over his options. He glances back over his shoulder at me, his intensity reminding me of that night when I'd asked him to – ordered him to kiss me. But the look fades as he returns to his work.

"Do you want something? To eat or to drink, I mean," he makes an empty gesture with his hands, still trying to not quite make eye contact.

"No, I'm…I'm fine."

The awkward silence spans for more than a few minutes, only interrupted by the sounds of items being placed into the box. Once again, I find myself peeking around at the sheer emptiness of this home, _his_ home. I can't imagine what it'll be like when it's completely barren.

Cartman finishes, staring at the blank place on the ledge for moment, and then walks back over to his couch to sit. I don't dare sit down next him, god only knows what would come of that.

"What's up, Kyle?" he asks casually, but it sounds like anything but to me.

"N-nothing," I stammer, wanting to add more but once more, hold my tongue.

"Then why are you here?" the edge of frustration dawns in his tone. He knows why I'm here, but I also know that he wants me to actually say it. My courage falters.

"I-I wanted…I wanted to see you off, you know, make sure you don't forget all those corsets and feather boas," I offer up a dry laugh that dies in my throat.

"Heh," Cartman snorts, "yeah don't worry, I packed them all, just in case the localTexasbars needed some cross-dressing entertainment."

"They'll be luck to have you," I nod. Cartman glances up at me, his eyes looking tired and dulled. I add a tad slower, "Anyone would."

It seems like the universe was holding its breath for something, _anything_, to happen. But then Cartman releases a dead chuckle that almost sounds remorseful, bitterly so. We lock eyes once more and my insides freeze.

"Do you really think so?" he asks with a quirk of his brows. We aren't talking about Texan bars any more. But Cartman looks so afraid, terrified that I might say I want him to stay, or maybe terrified that I won't.

"Yeah,Texas will be perfect for you," I smile, clenching my jaw, "much better thanSouthPark."

His shoulders slump slightly, a sharp look in the back of his eyes but I can't decipher it. Heart-ache or relief? I'm not sure which.

"Well, I still have a few things to pack…," his voice cuts off short, waiting for me to fill in the blank.

"I'll be going then," I try to smile again but my lips revolt, twisting into something of a pained grin as I make my way to the front door once again. "Guess I'll be seeing you."

_No you won't_.

"Sure thing," his smile is just as forced as my own.

I wave once, a quick movement, and then the door clicks shut behind me.

* * *

**The END!**

**Oh my god, you guys would totally kill me. No, we have a few - maybe two? - more chapters to go. So, just kidding everyone ^_^ **

**A/N: Okay, so there were a lot of "scenes" in that. I guess that's what to call them. Those little breaks that lead into something entirely different. Do you guys find those annoying? I was starting to wonder this because I've been doing that alot in my writing but now I sort of wonder whether people really want a more consistent chapter and stuff. **

**Just a little thought. Review if you'd like and tell me what you thought og this chapter ^_^ Thanks so much!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: Oh my god, so this is getting really intense now because we are in the home stretch of Better Left Unsung and man, I gotta apologize _again_ on lateness. Hopefully the next chapter will be out on time, but well, we all know how good I am with that. And yeah, I always make promises to have this out earlier, but I never do. x( Sorry! I was actually going to hold off on this chapter and just wait another week, but I decidded not to, so please excuse any misspellings and such!**

**Please enjoy this chapter of Better Left Unsung! ~Pie**

* * *

Chapter 12: Sitting, Waiting, Wishing

School's over but I guess as I stand in my little brother's room, staring out his window with my hand pressed against the cold glass, I felt like I was back to square one.

I watch as the moving truck pulls into his driveway and as he actually _helps_ them pack everything away. I watch as he takes that extra second to just stare at his house, I watch as he looks back at my house, if only for a moment too long. I watch as he disappears back inside only to come back out with his suitcases. I watch as his mother pulls up in a rented car – they're leaving the gold Cadillac behind with a "for sale" sign stuck in the back window.

It'll serve as my only reminder of Cartman.

"You know, just staring at something doesn't make it come to you," Ike says from behind me. I sigh and reluctantly pull myself away – I can't force myself to watch this any longer. My brother crosses his arms over his chest defensively, as if I might come punch him for interrupting my thoughts.

"Yeah, life would be a lot easier if it did, huh?" I sigh, sliding past him.

Stan, thankfully, was leaving me alone for the most part. Graduation was in a few days and it kept him and the rest of my family busy while I got to just laze around. For some reason, I found that I didn't really care. I wanted to go back to the days where Cartman and I were still in school together, still bantering and still being assholes to each other. Anything was better than _this._

Ever since Prom, Nikki had been keeping her distance too. It made me uncomfortable to think that she'd realized just what was really going on between me and my so-called 'enemy' behind closed doors. It made me wonder how pissed off she was at me for dating her when I was tangled up in something like that.

_Something like that_. I didn't even have a word for what Cartman and I had. "Frienemies with benefits" did not seem quite right.

It's a weird feeling that the only proof of any relationship is just what you and the other person share, otherwise it could never have even existed in the first place. Cartman could leave, we could move on, and it would be like this had never even happened. Everything we'd had was just some far off memory, a dream – or maybe a nightmare.

I land face first into my couch as the engine of the moving truck disappears.

"Bubala, your little friend Eric from across the street is leaving now, are you sure you don't want to go say goodbye? The Stoch boy is over there," my mom stands in front of me, hands on her hips.

"We were never very good friends," I murmur into the couch cushions. Just when I think that my mom is going to leave me alone, deciding that I was just 'in one of those teenage moods' again, she sits down on the edge beside me.

"Are you not feeling well?" my mom's hand rubs my back in slow circles. This was the woman that I loved, not the screeching bitch who was constantly harping about something – rather this mother who cared about her son.

"Mom…," I roll over just enough to look up at her, "do you love Dad?"

She blinks those striking similar green eyes back at me and replies immediately, as one would expect a married mother to assure her child, "Yes, of course I love your father. Why would ask such a thing?"

"Well, it's just-," I bite my lip, trying to put together the right words. "Was there ever a time when you thought you couldn't be with him?"

Understanding dawns in my mother's eyes as she smiled gently at me, "Nope, not ever. And the reason was because I loved your father so much. There was never the option of living a life without Gerald – not one that I would want to lead anyway. What's all this about, bubala?"

My mom pets my curls softly in concern, coaxing me into honesty. I sigh as I answer, "It's just that I don't want to marry a nice Jewish girl, mom."

"That's fine sweetheart," my mother chuckles. "Your father and I joked about that, you know. Sure it might be ideal, but _love_ isn't ideal – it never is. Your father and I met because we were both Jewish, not because we were looking for a Jewish partner. Sure, it made things easier, but if you don't find a Jewish girl, then your father and I will understand."

"Then I think I have something that I need to tell you," my mouth feels dry and a lump is forming in the back of my throat. I croak nervously, "Mom, I think I might already be in love with someone."

"Oh, really?" her hand pauses in its movements through my tangled locks. My mom's thumb taps against the back of my head slowly, thoughtfully, as if she's waiting for me to continue. As if she just knows there's more.

"Uh-huh," I nod and swallow thickly. "I also think I might – uhm, m-might be –," I shake my head, furrowing my brows, "Mom, I'm gay."

_There, I said it._ Time seems to slow as my mother just stares at me blankly, inspecting my face as if searching for any trace of uncertainty or hesitation. But I know that she won't find any – the truth of that one simple statement is so great that it terrifies me.

"Is it Stan?"

The question takes me aback. I splutter instantly, "Oh god no, Mom. We're just – god, we're_ just friends_. It's – um, it's not him."

"Will I get to meet this mystery boy who's been courting you without the consent of your parents, then?" she asks, her eyes getting that sharp look to them once more. Before she can launch into a rant about how I should have told her, my mother stops short. The broken look on my face must've said it all just then. "What happened, honey?"

She falls back into concerned-mommy-mode, which I was suddenly really thankful for. I'm too tired to cry, too emotionally spent to grieve over losing Cartman and all of our "could've's", "should've's", and "would've's".

"I don't know how to fix things," I sigh, feeling the couch sag more so under my weight. Maybe if I was lucky, the cushions would just open up and swallow me whole, never to see the light of day again. _One can always hope_, my brain supplies unhelpfully.

"Sweetheart – bubala," she strokes my hair a tad more forcefully, pushing the unruly locks away from my eyes, "not everything will turn out the way you plan, but if you try then at least you'll have no regrets. Now go clean your room, please."

With that said, Mom leans in and presses a firm kiss to the top of my head before disappearing back into the kitchen.

Outside, I hear Mrs. Cartman's car pull away, taking her son with her back toTexas.

. . . . .

I stare back at my dead eyes in the mirror of mine and my brother's shared bathroom while I try and fix my bowtie. No such luck.

Today is the big day – graduation, and I'm up nearly ten hours before the damn ceremony even starts because my stupid family is coming into town. _Dumb cousin Kyle, dumb family, dumb ceremony that no one gives a shit about_, I mentally run through the lists of all the things I curse. _Dumb brunch, dumb tuxedo, dumb impossible tie that looks ridiculous._

My whole family is still asleep, my father's snores drifting down the hallway. The sun is barely coming up over the horizon – gradually something I'm becoming accustomed to seeing each morning – but that doesn't make the tiredness go away.

I glance back at my reflection and wince – I don't even look myself anymore. Somehow, some thin and worn-down kid with scraggly hair and the onset of stubble has replaced the old me, the one who was clean, organized, and always so sure of what I wanted. But now? God, it's hard deciding what cereal to eat in the morning.

Shaking my head, I splash some cool water onto my face. I need to get out of this house; a familiar feeling that I welcome. I tear the strip of cloth away from my neck and even dare to shed the heavy black blazer. Right now, some cold air would do me a world of good.

Without another thought, I head for the front door of my house and desperately throw myself into the still and cold air ofSouthPark. It can't be much later than seven in the morning, I figure, because of the way the sun crests over the mountains and spills its golden rays onto the snow. My breath comes out in plumes of pale steam that curls around my lips. I push the white dress shirt's sleeves up over my forearms and allow my hands to slip into the large pockets of the black slacks as I venture down the newly snow-crusted street.

Cartman slips back into the center of my thoughts, comfortably consuming all of my attention. The memories and whispers of him that I'd pushed off to the side surround me, his laugher and voice ringing in my ears. Despite him usually being a total asshole, I'd somehow managed to get to know him, care about him. But all of that will just disappear until one day, he and I become strangers again.

I stop midstride.

Unconsciously, my feet had taken me down the block and around the cul-de-sac until I was standing in front of what once was the Cartman residence, now a hollow reminder. I glance up and down the street cautiously as I stroll casually up to porch, trying to look inconspicuous.

"I'm such an idiot," I hiss to myself but another part of me perseveres, getting closer and closer to the front door. _It's probably locked_, I reassure myself but regardless, my hand dives for the knob. _Well, just checking wouldn't hurt._

The handle turns and, as though opened by itself, the door swings open wide to grant access to the frozen interior of the abandoned home. A new sort of cold bites at my skin as I take the first step inside.

Everything's gone, only the walls and the carpet remaining. Even the piano in the corner has disappeared, as if it'd never been there in the first place. As if that night, _that moment_, had never really happened.

I run my bare hands against the chilled wallpaper, following the edges of the room, until at last I reach the grainy bricks of the fireplace. My fingers clutch onto the self tightly, my knuckles turn white from the force of my grip.

"_Why did you have to go_?" I murmur, my voice breaking slightly. With a great sigh that seems to rack my whole entirety, I rest my forehead against the back of my hands. I don't know how long I stay like that, latched onto Cartman's fireplace and breathing in the last remaining hints of his smell. Finally, I tilt my head to one side and stare down the angled surface of the mantelpiece and the fine layer of dust beginning to accumulate already.

And then I see it.

A set of car keys and a note card, perched at the very opposite end from me. Deftly, I snag the two items and hold them up to my blank stare of disbelief.

_You're invited to Mr. J. Thomas' and Ms. Liane Cartman's wedding. _

I nearly forget how to breathe. An idea bubbles up to surface of my mind, taking shape as I twist the delicately decorated paper around in my palms. There's an address, and a date – a date that's marked as today. I scan the card – _I'll miss the actually wedding ceremony but…but if I hurry, then I can make it to the reception_.

Now my attention turns to the set of keys slung around my index finger.

_C__adillac_ car keys.

* * *

**Author's Note: Okay, I'm really really sorry because this chapter is just terribly short but I felt like it would've been waaay too long if I'd also included the rest of it, so a bad cliffhanger :( Sorry, darlings. I know I'm such an evil little pie, sometimes! xD Also, I wanted to say thanks again for all the wonderful support from everyone with the awesome reviews! They really help a lot and give me something to think about and to keep my going through all the long nights and plot-thinking sessions. **

**I really hope you guys are enjoying this story and have enjoyed it because I believe that the next chapter will in fact be the very last. I'll leave my whole "this was a great run" sort of speech for the very last chapter, but I still wanted to give a give thanks to everyone out there who's read this and reviewed it as well ^_^ thanks so much for the amazing support! **

**P.s. Can't you guys just imagine Butters hugging Eric goodbye? xD**


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: Oh my god, you guys. This is _it_. This is the very last *official* chapter of Better Left Unsung. And I gotta be honest, I really really enjoyed writting this fic. It started off being kind of a joke, but evolved into its own thing and its own plot. I hope you guys enjoyed reading it as much I have writting it because honestly, it has been a blast. **

**Thanks to everyone who has read this and seriously to everyone who had reviewed. Everyone's awesome words of encouragement and sugestions to make my writting better have brought me such a long way and really helped my inspiration and really I just want to say a sincere thanks to you guys. I don't know where I'd be without all of my amazing readers who support me so much! I love you guys! This chapter is dedicated to you guys, as always ^_^**

**Please enjoy the final chapter of Better Left Unsung. ~CutiePie**

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Chapter 13: Please Don't Go

When someone does something daring – something _courageous_ – I used to wonder how they felt doing it. I used to think that they would feel this rush that spurred them onward, that would carry them through the ordeal.

But that was before I jammed those keys into that ignition. That was before I began to exit onto the off-ramp of the freeway leading out of South Park.

I'm scared shitless.

The mountain scenery whips past me at eighty-three miles an hour as I speed down the deserted highway hap hazardously. The whole time, I am mentally screaming, _turn back! Take that turn right there and just go back before they even notice you've left!_

But I know that I won't. That I simply can't. I've come too far already, risked too much, to let Cartman walk away now. It's only too bad that I was too blind to see that before.

"Holy shit," I groan, clasping the wheel tighter in my sweating palms. "What the fuck am I supposed to even _say_? "Hey, so I want you back…?" Fuck no. I'm so screwed. Yeah, great plan Kyle! Way to go."

I take my eyes away from the road long enough to press my forehead against the steering wheel, breathing out a deep sigh of frustration. I'm so mad right now, and the worst part is, I'm angry as hell at myself. This whole situation is my fault. My fucking fault.

"Fuck – shitty stupid fucking – !" I curse loudly, filling the silence in my car. "Mother fucking god damn asshole – _son of a bitch!"_

I glance to my left in time to see the woman in the passenger's seat of a van full of kids stare at me in confused shock. They promptly switch lanes to the one farthest from me.

Suddenly, I feel my pants pocket begin to vibrate – I'd almost forgotten about my cell phone. Hesitantly I fish it out and stare at the name and number lit up on the front of the flip screen. STAN MARSH flashes back at me while the little device continues to pulsate angrily.

"Hello?" barely leaves my mouth before my ear is assaulted with incoherent shouting. I flinch back from the phone until the noise subsides, replaced with Stan's controlled-rage voice.

"_Dude_, _where the fuck are you_?" comes his detached response. I can just imagine his face, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose in super-frustration mode and jaw clenched in aggravation.

"I'm – uh, well I just took the exit onto the twenty-five freeway so…yeah," I finish lamely. Somewhere in the background I can hear my mother squawking and Ike's amused tone as he asks Mom what we're going to do.

"_You're what? That's already like four hours away from here!" _he shouts, his voice ringing in my ear as I once again pull back. Over the phone, I hear the sounds of scuffle as it's being wrenched from Stan's grip, and being given to the one person who I've been dreading the whole time.

"_What what _what? _Young man, what in Abraham's name are you doing?" _Mom's shrill voice penetrates the air. "_Do you know what you've done – what you're throwing away? You come straight home this instant, Kyle Broflovski, or so help me you will face serious consequences! I mean it – turn that car around this instant!"_

I swallow back all of the fear and guilt clogging my throat as I manage to finally say, "I'm sorry, Mom…but I can't. I know it's hard to understand, maybe you never will, but I've got to do this. Say hi to Cousin Kyle and his parents for me."

With that, I flip my cell phone shut, it already pulsing with the immediate incoming call – one that I'm not planning on answering.

I toss my phone into the backseat, no intention of answering it again.

. . . . .

The sun is making its steady climb through the sky as I cross the border intoNew Mexico. I've made it about halfway there, the wedding being hosted in some church in Amarillo, Texas – which with any luck I'll be able to navigate my to – hopefully.

All the while, buzzing in the back seat, is my phone. I'd had a steady stream of nonstop calling for ten minutes, which would then stop for about an equal amount of time, before staring back up again. I know how mad my mom is – how mad they all must be, especially Nikki, who must at the this point have some clue as to what's really going on.

Finally, I decide that I _need_ something other than the sound of my phone vibrating and switch the radio on, searching for any station. And then the car was filled with Mike Posner's whine.

"_Baby please don't go, when I wake up tomorrow will you still be here? I don't know if you feel the way I do but if you leave, I'm gonna find you – baby please don't go."_

Halfway through the first verse I roll the window down, letting the hot and stale air New Mexico whip past me. The song continues, shaking the entire frame of the car with the volume of the bass and reverberating within my ribcage.

"Baby, please don't run away from my bed!" I practically belt out way off key, not even trying to sing anymore, over the air rushing past. "Let's start another day – stay instead! I feel the sun creeping up like tick tock, and trying to keep you in midn but if not, let's just keep running with our lips locked! Yeah, you got me begging - please don't go!"

Is it cheesy that I thought suddenly of Cartman? Hell yes. Do I care? Hell no.

. . . . .

Four hours later and I think I'm going to die.

If I thought I was nervous when I'd first hopped into the Cadillac, then I'm practically having a heart-attack right now. A gigantic sign bears down on the car, looking impossibly huge and frightening – and it says _Amarillo_ in bright white letters, stark against the pasty green metal. I swallow the lump forming in my throat. _Oh shit._

It takes a few extra glances at the invitation and some educated guesses, but I manage to find my way to a large white church with a chapel. If only the damn place had a fucking address on it. But I hardly care – I'd essentially followed the directions on the invite so this has got to be the place – definitely.

I jump out of the car after a shitty parking job (taking up two spaces, classy) and hurry up to the large wooden doors at the front. I can't help but wish I'd worn my blazer and tie, but black slacks and a wrinkled white button-up will have to do. With one last sigh, I push a hand through my tousled curls before approaching.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…," I hear the faint sound of the priest starting up the sermon. With a burst of bravery, I throw the doors of the church hall open.

"Wait, Cartman I-!" my words fall short.

One hundred or so very Asian eyes all turn towards me. And all one hundred pairs of eyes glare darkly from the pews. The bride and groom, also an Asian couple, stare at me slack-jawed.

"What he doing he'uh?" the bride demands, pointing angrily at me. "Who 'ah you? What you want?"

"I dohn' know!" The groom just holds his hands up in surrender. I can only stare blankly, trying to say something but nothing coming forward. _Well…fuck my life._

_"_I knew 'dis wedding would be crappy. He no right fo' you!" an old Asian lady explodes from one side of the pews. Another younger looking woman stands up too, hands already on her hips as she shoots back icily.

"Why you hate my brothah, huhn? He bring your daughter great honor by marrying her – she a slut! No man evah take her! My brothah do you favor," she snaps at the old woman.

"Your face bring great dishonor 'pon your family," the old lady shakes a crooked finger back at the opposing sister.

"I'm –uhm, I'm looking for the Cartman wedding…?" I interject loudly, still holding the doors open with each of my outstretched arms. My voice echoes across the elegantly decorated church, effectively silencing the bickering women.

"The Cartman/Thomas wedding party? You just missed them, son." The preacher, a middle-aged man with tired eyes, frowns back at me. "They should be at the hotel down the street though – the reception should be just starting."

"Oh…," I lick my lips, beginning to turn away again before I add quickly, "thanks. And uh, congratulations. On the wedding, I mean. Konichiwa."

That said, I bow a few times before turning on my heel and make a break for it. I can still here the bride screeching after me, "D'at's Japanese, you racist pig!".

. . . . .

When I reach the hotel, panting and tired but too high on adrenaline to even really notice, I know I've reached the right place. In the main ballroom, a whole shit load of people are gathered and I came just in time to hear the toast that some guy was giving.

As quietly as I could, I slip into the back of the large dim room, examining the round tables set up off in one corner for the face of Eric Cartman. I sneak along the back wall, heading towards the bar off in the opposite corner and closer to the toast-giver. I can't see Cartman from this far away, only really able to pick out his mother in a big white dress and a large man in a tux with a cowboy hat on sitting next to her.

I continue to scan the crowd, scooting around the mini bar. _Oh shit, what if he isn't even here? Would he even want to come to his mom's wedding?_ My thoughts are flying a mile a minute, my stomach churning anxiously in on itself.

"…And I just wanted to tell ya'll that love ain't selfish, despite how my brother might act," the man in the middle of the dance floor holds his champagne up to the newly wed couple and tips his own Texan hat. He turns away and walks back over to me, one hand clapped over the mic as he asks, "Ya up next kid?"

All rational thought seems to go out the window as I feel myself nod and take the microphone from his hands. Deftly, my feet take me out to the place where the groom's brother had just been standing while I snag a glass of champagne off of the bar's counter.

And then reason catches up with me.

I'm currently crashing a wedding. I'm missing my graduation ceremony, left my girlfriend, and crashing a wedding all for one person. But not just anyone. For Cartman, _Eric T. Cartman, _who for the past months has been making my life more of a living hell but for entirely different reasons. _Eric T. Cartman_ who I was here to win back. _By crashing his mom's wedding reception?_ My brain supplies unhelpfully.

One breath in, and then one breath out.

"Hello, everyone," my voice sounds foreign to my own ears from over the speakers. "Um, I just wanted to say congratulations to the bride and groom. So…yeah."

I stare across the crowd of people, each staring at me in confusion as if trying to figure who I was related to and or why the hell I'd decided to get up and give a toast. I'm beginning to wonder the same damn thing.

That is until I see him.

Cartman is sitting at the same table with his mom, dressed in a fancy looking tux and his hair actually appears styled. And he looks absolutely shocked, or maybe just really pissed off – I can't tell.

"I learned something, over this past couple of months," I say abruptly, watching Cartman watching me. "Love is a funny thing – it's not conventional and it makes you stupid and makes you do crazy things like crash a wedding and skip your graduation ceremony. But when you're in love, it makes all that insane shit worth it. I hope that the love you share with your new husband will be strong, Mrs. Cartman – er, I mean Mrs. Thomas. Even if your husband might be a Jew-hating racist Nazi, and you're a Jewish-Jersey hybrid with family issues, you can overlook all the faults because the little moments you share when no one else is looking, when he smiles that smile that you know is reserved for you alone, it make it all worth it." I feel my throat close slightly and I briefly let my eyes slide shut as to not allow any tears to escape. "I wish you the best of happiness, to both of you."

My arm drops back down to my side as I lift my glass up in a toast. Everyone hesitantly glances around before giving a quick 'cheers' and downing the bubbly. I raise my own drink up and swallow it in a few swift gulps, letting it burn all the way down.

"But, before I pass this microphone off to the next toaster – toastier? – I have one last thing I want to say," I can practically hear everyone stifle a groan.

Cartman is up out of his seat in a moment, already moving to take a step toward me as he warns in a deep voice, "Kyle, wait-."

"No, I need to say this before you decide to never speak to me again and while I still have the courage," I shake my head, clutching the mic to my chest tightly. "Cartman, I wanted you to know that being miserable with you is better than being happy with anyone else. I don't want to happy unless it's with you – I don't want to live a life that you're not a part of. I lied to you earlier; come back to South Park. _Please_."

For a long moment, Cartman just stands there and stared at me, eyes wide and actually looking very unsure. I swallow all of my fears as I reach out one hand towards him, begging him with ever fiber of my being to understand – to feel the same way.

And then he takes that first step.

Within a heartbeat, I'm gathered up into his arms as Cartman draws me into a tight, bone crushing hug that I return with tenfold the force. His face is buried into my shoulder and I press my cheek against his temple, breathing in his smell that I'd been missing for so long.

"What took you so fucking long, Jew?" he asks with a smirk, drawing back away from me. I can't help but just grin stupidly back at him and wipe at the moisture collecting at the corners of my eyes.

"Shut up, fatass, and fucking kiss me already," I retort with a chuckle. Cartman presses his lips against mine roughly, his fists balling up my shirt as he leans up on his toes to reach my mouth. I kiss him back just as fiercely but reluctantly pull back after a bit of hesitation.

"Ready to go home?" I ask with a sigh of contentment rolling out past my lips.

Simultaneously, we both glance over at the crowd of wedding goers who were all blatantly gawking at us. Except Cartman's mom, who is already starting to tear up and saying how 'cute' we are and how proud of her son she is. Cartman's lips quirk up on one side, alerting me of the wheels turning in his head.

"What if we just stay for the reception?" his amber eyes lock back on me, dancing with a sort of laughter I'd never seen in them before.

Without another thought, I lean in and capture his lips once more, my unspoken yes. As Cartman runs his hands through my curls, I can't help but grin back into our kiss.

. . . . .

Revenge, defined as taking a harmful action against someone who has caused you a personal grievance or otherwise.

That's what I'd told myself.

Then again, that was before the "I-hate-you"s turned to something else, some other unspoken, unseen "I-love-you"s. But then again some things in this world are just better left unsaid.

Or in our case, better left unsung.

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**The End.**

**. . . . .**

**Author's Note: Now I can actually say it and mean it :) **there might be an epilogue, not too sure****

**Just check to see if I end up changing this over to complete because if I do, then this will be it, but if I don't within like a week or so, then expect and epilogue. And someone did request a sequeal - you know who you are! - and I'm actually taking it into heavy consideration, so we'll see where that goes. :D Hope you guys enjoyed Better Left Unsung.**


	14. Epilogue

**Author's Note: This is finally it. The Epilogue that you have all been so patiently waiting for. I really hope you guys all enjoy this and I really hope I wrap up this story in a perfect way ^-^ Let me just say that really, it has been such an honor to get so many awesome reviews from so many dedicated readers and I know I said this every update, but seriously. It means so much to me. Thank you. For everything.**

**Please enjoy the last and very final chapter of Better Left Unsung. It has been a true pleasure. Adieu and enjoy.**

**~CutiePie**

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. . . . .

Epilogue: Making Sense

. . . . .

Morning light spills in, warming my exposed back and coaxing me into awareness. All the events of the past twenty-four hours sit in the back of my mind, comfortably pushed back because damn it, I'm trying to savor a moment without worrying about all the shit to come after. My bare skin brushes against the cool sheets as I roll over to greet the person who I shared a bed with last night.

Eric T. Cartman.

I lean over him, resting my forearms down across his naked chest. Slowly, a lazy smile breaks across his once serene face as those deep amber eyes peer back at me from under still sleep-heavy lids. I take moment to just stare at my enemy, his hair impossibly mussed and a day's growth visible on his defined jaw.

"Hey," my voice comes out gravelly and rasping from sleep, "I think we may have missed check-out."

The corners of Cartman's eyes crinkle at the laugh lines and I watch, fascinated, as his whole face seems to transform and light up as he chuckles, me rising up and down along with everyone of his breaths. One of Cartman's hands finds its way to my hair, intertwining in the curls.

"Worried it's going cost extra, Kyle?" he asks with a smirk.

I blink back at him as I say with a frown, "You just called me by my name."

"Prefer Jew-fag better?" Cartman laughs again, which I can't help but find incredibly odd. Usually, the fatass is never in such a good mood. But then again, it isn't every day I chase my arch enemy all the way to another state, ultimately crashing his mother's wedding just to apologize for being an asshole. And then sleeping together, let's not forget that little detail.

Huh. Guess that puts me in a pretty damn good mood too.

A smile stretches across my face as I wrap my arms around Cartman's neck, pressing my lips against his cheek in a firm kiss. His stubble slides under me as his own grin spreads out, ear to ear. I could lay in this bed all day – or for the rest of my adult life.

"Come on, asshole," I push myself off of him and fumble for my boxers lying at the foot of the bed. Already I can feel Cartman's eyes on me, watching me not with a hungry look but just lazy fascination. From over my shoulder, I toss him his own underwear as well as his wrinkled slacks from last night.

If we wanted to get anywhere today, I know I'd have to make the first move while the idea of lazing around until hotel management kicks us out becomes too terribly tempting.

Briefly, a hand flits across the small of my back and lands solely upon the bone of my hip, my arms still in the air tangled within my white undershirt.

"You know, we _did_ already miss check-out, _Kahl_," Cartman's drawls. His body is suddenly pressing lightly against my back, only the ghost of his warmth alerting me of his presence as he murmurs, "What could another hour hurt?"

I turn slightly dropping my forgotten shirt back on the carpet and stare down into those deep brown eyes, those that hold a silent challenge. I arch an eyebrow; he smirks devilishly back at me. Touché.

"Just an hour?" I ask vaguely, stooping down to inch my face closer to his.

"I swear," he extends his pinky finger toward me, "no Jew-ing out."

"Alright, but we _do_ have to leave sometime soon, so _just_ an hour," I confirm to which Cartman's wry smile only grows. "Don't fuck me over on this fat-boy."

"No, Jew, that'll be your job," he eyes dance dangerously back at me. Without warning I lunge at Cartman.

It is, after all, _only_ an hour.

. . . . .

When we – finally – get back to South Park, it's raining.

In the passenger seat, Cartman's pressed against the car door and staring out into the murky darkness that is a summer night in South Park. Rain droplet's pelt the Cadillac as we speed down the main road of our small mountain town.

"Jew, pull over," Cartman commands sharply. He reaches into the backseat only to produce a dingy umbrella that's seen better days and a thick woolen blanket. "Prepare to run."

That said, Cartman bolts from the car as I kill the engine and join him. This is the only time of year when South Park wasn't freezing cold – it was actually a nice change. The warm water of the storm washes over me, almost instantly drenching me from head to toe. One thing I love about South Park – summer showers.

"Come on, Jew!" Cartman calls to me from the sidewalk, already covered by the umbrella. My curls stick to my forehead and drip water down my nose. Without hesitation, I run toward Cartman, snatching his hand up in my own as we run together down the rain slick pavement.

We dive under the cover of a house's porch, Cartman's old house. My eyes meet his, and then we both fall apart into hysterics, laughing and snorting and leaning on each other to keep from falling over. Our clothes squelch as Cartman wraps one arm around my shoulders to keep himself steady while he fishes for his house keys.

"You kept a set?" I gesture to the small golden key lying in his palm. Cartman just grins that stupid shit-eating grin of his as he opens the door.

"Yeah, I figured I might need one just in case, oh I don't know, you ever got the balls to come get me," Cartman shuts the door behind me and shakes of the umbrella off.

The house is just like it was when I was last here – bare. All that's left is the paper on the walls and the stains on carpet, and of course Cartman and myself. _Drip drip dripping wet._

"Well, are you planning on just staying here? I mean, there's literally nothing left in this house, so why don't you just come with me, back to my place? At least then we could face the music together."

Cartman frowns as he flaps the blanket out and lays it down on the ground, saying all the while, "Or how about we don't? _Kahl, _what will a few days even matter? It's not like they're expecting you back today or anything, and it'd probably be better, I mean we both know how big of a bitch your mother is when she's all pissy."

"Don't call my mom a bitch," flies out of my mouth before I can stop it, but Cartman in turn just shrugs half-heartedly.

"Then stay here, Jew."

For the second time, I make a reckless decision.

. . . . .

The last thing I would've ever imagined mine and Cartman's relationship to be is normal. Much less _domestic_ – god, the very idea of coming home to the fatass in some apron, cooking me dinner, used to be enough to make me gag. Don't get me wrong, that's still not how things are, not even a little bit.

But we make sense.

Me and Cartman.

We. Us. _Together._

And I guess I never really understood that until I bothered to ever truly try _us_ out. Cartman and myself. In a weird way, we're good together and even good for each other, but I never understood that until the days I spent with him.

All I can really say is thank god for stores open past midnight – everyday we would curl up on the blanket together at about five o'clock in the morning and sleep until at least nine in the evening. We'd laze around, just arguing in hushed tones and tangled together until finally we decided an extremely late breakfast would be best.

Then, at like ten at night, we'd stroll into the Country Kitchen Buffet which was open basically twenty-four hours, and split a breakfast meal, dueling with our forks over the last bite of French toast. All the while debating some vague, unimportant topics.

The first day we went grocery shopping together – mind you, it was probably near midnight by the time we made it to the local farmer's market – I had this surreal moment that I could do this same routine for the rest of my life, happily.

"Hey Kyle, check out my melons," Cartman smiles impishly at me, holding up an impressive pair of cantaloupes in front of his chest. I snicker back at him, shaking my head as we both receive stern looks from the last grocery-story stragglers – an old lady out for bananas and a balding, middle aged man in a sweater vest scoping magazines with a bottle of vodka in hand.

"Go get a bottle of soda," I read off from the sloppily scrawled list on my hand, written in smeared ink we'd gotten from some ancient pen out of the glove box in the Cadillac. Cartman rolls his eyes, grunts, and stalks off. But miraculously doesn't call me a kike or tell me to do it my fucking self. I try and fail to repress a small triumphant smile.

Absently, I browse the cereal boxes, reading the names but not really at the same moment.

"Ah, _Kahl_?" comes Cartman's hesitant call. I back pedal with the cart only to find said Nazi bastard reaching on his tip-toes to the highest self, swatting at a bottle yet fingers continuously coming within a good four inches short. Even one of his feet is lifted from the ground and wiggling helplessly as he tries in vain to snatch it.

This time, I can't suppress the chuckle building in the back of my throat.

"Will you just help me out, you damn Jew-rat?" he demands, cheeks tinted with the faintest blush. I grin and lazily approach, pushing the cart with every audible squeak. Without another word, I walk over beside him and reach up, grabbing the liter of soda without a problem.

I set it down gently in his awaiting hands, no cursing, no teasing, just genuinely making an effort to be nice. Cartman blinks back at me and we share a slow, easy smile.

Yeah, we make sense.

. . . . .

For the rest of the night (basically our daytime) Cartman and I watched movie after movie, commenting so loudly to each other that we barely heard the damn thing at all. Of course, for 'dinner' Cartman cooked me his 'famous' instant mac-n'-cheese, which essentially meant that he just used a shit load of butter in it than normal.

Yet, by the time the sun was starting to creep up on the horizon, I find myself lying quite awake next to a dozing Cartman. We're stretched out together upon the wool blanket in the middle of what used to be his living room. Who would've guessed that Cartman snores so softly?

I pull myself into a sitting position, retrieving my cell phone from my pocket – the damn thing is nearly dead. Still no more calls from my mother or from Stan, and not even any messages either. I frown as I enter my contacts, scrolling down until I hit the one name I've been looking for.

_Nikki._

We still have unfinished business, business that I don't think ought to just be dismissed so easily.

I tap out a quick text message to her and hit send before I can change my mind. The digital letter flies into the mailbox with a sharp beep – message sent. Just as I flip my phone shut and flop backwards, the vibrations of my phone start up.

She replied.

. . . . .

"You better have a damn good reason to be forcing me out of bed this early, Kyle."

Nikki arches a perfectly plucked eyebrow back at me, one hand pushing her long black locks away from her face and the other listlessly stirring her coffee. Yesterday's used mascara lines her eyes, making them look darker, smokier. She taps her spoon gently against the porcelain side and licks off one light toffee shaded drop, the very color of her skin.

"You're the one who agreed," I remind her patiently, sipping at my apple juice.

All around us in the small run-down diner the waitresses lumber about sluggishly, as if still half-asleep. Just off to my left out the window, the sun is beginning to rise, its golden white rays cascading in and painting the sky a pale pink. The frost had once more returned, leaving a slight chill in the early morning air.

"Yeah, yeah, spare me Jew-boy," she rolls her eyes. I can't help but wince at the nickname. "So, you plan on telling me why it is that you bailed out on going to your graduation? And left us all wondering just where the hell you went? I mean, Stan said something about going to Texas or something but…I'd rather hear it from you."

"Well, you'd be right, about the part in Texas I mean. I went to go get Cartman back," I say slowly, watching Nikki's expression carefully. Not even a flicker in those dark brown eyes. I continue, my voice measured, "I basically ended up crashing his mother's wedding – not my finest moment. But anyway, I really am sorry about ditching everyone."

Nikki examines me closely before leaning back against the booth cushion, crossing her arms over her chest. A slow smirk dawns upon her features as she says, "Oh, cut the crap Kyle. We both know why you wanted to see me – just go ahead and say it, no need to play coy with me."

"Nothing gets past you, huh?" I sigh, running a hand roughly through my curls. "You're over, then I guess."

She stares back down at her upturned palms resting on the table, blinking a few times. A silence takes us over, I take a long drink of my watered down juice.

"So…," Nikki trails off, "you're gay then?"

"Well, I'm not really sure," I admit. "I mean, I'm in a relationship with a guy and I'm a guy too, so I guess that would mean I am. Whether it's really my sexuality or a title that just falls in place due to a certain situation, I don't know."

"That's good enough for me," Nikki just shrugs slightly. "There's no point in being mad at you or upset because we happened to not work out. If wasn't meant to be, then it wasn't and I can't really change that. Can't say I wasn't half expecting this, though."

I quirk a curious brow back at her, to which she just waves off with a flourishing gesture.

"We can still be friends, right?" I ask vaguely, wondering maybe if I could salvage anything from this. Nikki is cool and I really do like her – hanging out sometime would be nice.

"Perhaps, perhaps not." Nikki's eyes glitter mischievously back at me as she says, "But seriously, don't feel bad about how things turned out between us – I'm glad you finally sorted things out with your friend. So maybe we aren't meant to have the dream house together, I'll get over it."

Already I feel a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth as I shake my head, saying, "You are something else, you know that?"

"I try," she smiles back. "But, you'll have to tell me Kyle, which one of you is top?"

Heat flushes my cheeks as I lean over to playfully whack her arm, she only bursts out into childish and uncontrollable giggles. The waitresses give me the stink eye from behind the counter.

"Nikki!" I say in mockingly stern voice and try to keep myself from laughing as well. Nikki's smile finally reaches those gorgeous eyes of hers and I know in that moment, all is forgiven.

. . . . .

"Are you sure you want to do this, Jew?"

"Duh, fatass."

"'Ey, I'm being seriously here _Kahl!_"

I give Cartman a blank look. He shifts back and forth, foot to foot, eyes downcast. _My god, he almost looks…nervous._ Tentatively, I reach down to clasp his gloved hand firmly in my own. Our relationship is still a little uncertain – I don't really know where the lines have been drawn yet. But I offer up comfort anyway, comfort that Cartman doesn't spitefully lash out at me for. Some would call that progress.

"Dude, as long as we stick together, we'll be fine," I nod my head, assuring mostly myself.

My house has never looked this daunting before until this one moment, my real moment of truth. No one ever really tells you what happens after the hero wins back his girl – or in my case, Nazi bastard – but I guess it isn't usually standing on the porch of your parents, about to reintroduce them to your now-significant other.

"Alright," Cartman nods, but then adds after a small moment of consideration, "I trust you, Jew-rat."

"Good," I lean down and capture his lips in a chaste kiss. Our pinky fingers intertwine, hidden from anyone else's sight but ours. Cartman pulls away, smirking yet breathless at the same time. We can do this, I know we can – simply put, we have to. I don't know what the future holds for me and my Nazi, but at that very moment, I don't care. Whatever lies beyond, we can face it.

I step forward and open the door.

. . . . .

* * *

**The End.**


	15. Sequel Note

**Author's (incredibly belated) note:**

**So yeah, I'm still alive. It's been freaking forever but I actually wanted to let all of you people out there know that I actually have a sequel in the works. Yeah, like a year later and here I am. **

**I guess we'll see how this goes in the next few weeks, and in *hopefully* less than a month from now, I'll have this sequel up and under it's own title. It's good to be back and I'm looking forward to being a part of the Kyman community again :) see you all then!**


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